


Revelations

by Zepenthia



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Eventual Romance, Figuring shit out, M/M, More Pining, Pining, Probably More Pining, Showers, Stage Gay, Sweaty Gerard, Touring, frank's pov
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:00:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23514316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zepenthia/pseuds/Zepenthia
Summary: Inspired by the infamous kisses - Frank and Gerard are just really close friends, at least, that's what Frank keeps telling himself... So why is he slowly unraveling?
Relationships: Frank Iero/Gerard Way
Comments: 65
Kudos: 79





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, you've found my semi-coherent stream of consciousness. To sum this craziness up, the infamous Frerard kisses have broken my brain into a thousand tiny pieces and I just. Can't. Deal. So this is my attempts to explore two of the Kissing Events so I can maybe put all these tiny little pieces back together and once again realize mental and emotional coherency. Please forgive any timeline discrepancies, I'm taking some creative liberties here. And to be honest, I also don't remember the timeline from back then very well. Esbeenawhileok. Plus, I don't really want pages and pages of filler between the two Kissing Events, so just go with it, alright? I was originally planning on this being one complete piece but it very much got away from me, and now I have all these plot points bulleted out and there's just no fucking way. So, you could say, this is me Phoning It In. Enjoy!

Frank loves his job. Frank fucking _loves_ his job. There’s just no better way to say it. 

Playing his heart out every night on stage, surrounded by his best friends, lit up by floodlights in front of arenas jam-packed with screaming fans. It’s just unreal. He just really fucking loves his job. There’s something so raw about what they do on stage -- baring their souls to thousands in different cities every night. He’s not sure what his favorite part about all of it is. He relishes the butterflies he still gets right as the lights dim. Or the comradery they all have, the ‘we’re in this together’ feeling he gets when they give high fives and share a group hug right before walking on stage. He loves jumping around like a madman, high on endorphins and riding on adrenaline, not really sure where it will lead him each night. He loves hearing Mikey plucking away behind him, stoic as ever, while Bob keeps the beat honest. Ray, beaming at him from across the stage whenever he notices Frank or Gerard pulling a particularly ridiculous stunt. He loves watching Gerard, drenched in sweat and open mouthed, as he holds the microphone away from himself and towards the crowd, listening as those thousands carry lyrics when he falls silent. Frank thinks that maybe this is what he loves most. That gleam in Gerard’s eyes when he turns around after these moments, catching Frank’s gaze. The smile that plays on the corner of his lips right before he resumes singing. The way he runs his nervous hands through his hair, the way this doesn’t help the situation at all. Ever. But it also kind of really does in a way that it kind of really _shouldn’t_. In a way that Frank doesn’t want to -- isn’t _ready_ to fully admit to quite yet.

But there it is. He knows they mess around on stage a lot and have all these really childish fucking play fights when they get bored on the bus, and that these moments may or may not make Frank’s week. But like, in a secret, deep-down kind of way, where everything else just sort of starts looking up and even the really bad things that might follow in the few days after don’t seem so trivial. They’re just affectionate friends is all, really. 

Being on the road is tough. They need that human contact to ground them, Frank rationalizes to himself sometimes. To make them feel like humans again after being put up on a literal podium every night. After days, weeks, months, of being away from their families and friends. They only have each other when they’re on the road like this. They just need something tangible to remind themselves that they’re alive, that they have each other still.

“- FRANK”

Frank’s jarred out of his nonsensical stream of thoughts by Ray’s scratchy post-show voice. Frank’s been sitting backstage in their dressing room for the past, well, he’s not entirely sure how long, but at least five minutes in a crumpled sweaty mess on an even crumplier, sweatier couch. How many bands have sweat on this couch before, he wonders. It has this certain odor that he’s one hundred percent sure has permeated permanently into the veined, dingy brown leather. It kind of makes him wonder if it’s ever been cleaned, and if it has, does it really make the situation better if it still smells _this_ offensive?

Trying not to think further on the couch or the questionable stains he knows he’s languishing upon right now, Frank drags his eyes up to his friend. Ray’s hair is even wilder than usual, as is his modus operandi post show. Flyaway strands are sticking to his temple and neck in odd places, framing his face in a Picasso sort of way.

“The fuck man, can’t a guy zone the fuck out after rampaging the stage for two hours straight? Did you see that shit tonight?” Frank says in response. He’d broken two guitars, a stage lamp, and maybe a toe.

“Yeah, but you were like, zoned **ALL** the way out, dude. Like I’m pretty sure that even Gerard doesn’t have shit on the level of zoned out you were in this time. And he zones the _fuck_ out. I’ve called you like three times already, dude.”

Frank just lets out a groan and slides further into the cushions, pressing his eyelids closed with the palms of his hands.

“Dude, I totally heard that Bert pissed himself on that couch. Jeph told me when I texted him that we were playing here tonight.” 

Frank opens a wary eye at this, the corners of his mouth pull down towards his chin in a show of disgust but says nothing in response and makes no intentions of moving any time soon. So Ray continues, raising his hands in defeat, “Listen, I’m just trying to look out for you bud.”

How can he be so mobile and talkative and fucking lively after that show tonight? It was hotter than sin in that arena and twice as loud. He tries to tell him this, but it only comes out as a string of indiscernible consonants, more close to ‘Hrcnmmmpht?’ than he’s ever said before in his life.

Ray raises an eyebrow, pausing for thought, “Aww no, Frankie, you’re not getting sick again, are you?” Ray’s over to him in a second, hand pressed against his forehead, donning the look of motherly concern that he wears so well. “You were just sick a few weeks ago, pull yourself together, man!”

But Frank can tell that he’s concerned behind the weak jibe at his sub-par immune system. He knows he gets sick easily, but he doesn’t think that’s what this is. He’s just tired. He thinks tonight was just a bit of sensory overload. It was just _so_ fucking hot tonight. He gets a flashback to Gerard’s pants stuck as if paper thin to those thighs, already drenched in sweat by the third song, the way he sashayed across the stage as Frank strummed the chords to Teenagers. The way he fucking _moaned_ when there was no god damn reason for that shit. That shit shouldn’t be _legal_. And- oh no, he’s doing that thing again where his body is slowly sinking into the cushions, and he’s pretty sure his skin is melding with the leather and what the fuck is he trying to _do_ here? _Become_ the couch?

Ray finally pulls his hand away from Frank’s forehead, checking it against his own to gauge the temperature. “You _are_ kinda warm. Your cheeks are a bit red too, Frankie. Let me grab you some water. Just...” He pauses, “Stay.” He says it halfheartedly, like he knows he shouldn’t need to say it considering the state his friend’s in, but also you never really know with Frank. Ray walks off hastily, dodging various crew members that have started to load their equipment away as he goes.

“You better drink all that water, motherfucker,” A raspy, spent voice comes from just outside the ajar door and a hopelessly disheveled head of hair peeks into the doorway, followed by a small pointy nose and pale, flushed cheeks. Frank jumps out of his skin a little because it’s Gerard and he was NOT just thinking about how he may or may not have jerked off his microphone on stage tonight. How can he act so fucking _normal_ after that shit? And - oh unholy mother of god - he’s making his way through the doorway now, pausing to hold it open for a crew member hoisting an amp. His hair is still dripping sweat onto his shirt, which is just clinging to him like a second skin and what the _fuck_ is wrong with him today? Why does his mind keep going to these places? This is his best friend for fuck’s sake.

Frank throws an arm that’s a bit too noodle-y over his forehead and groans out “Gerard, I don’t even have it yet. You know I stop overachieving the second I leave the stage. How the fuck am I supposed to drink water that I don’t even _have_ yet?” Except it comes out much too whiny and with very little articulation.

Gerard doesn’t even respond. He just saunters over from the doorway - fucking _saunters_ \- and collapse nearly on top of the mess of his friend’s body. Gerard’s left kneecap is digging into Frank’s thigh and his elbow is poking uncomfortably into Frank’s ribs but Frank can’t say that he’s unhappy about it at the moment. Should he be?

“You’re sitting in Bert’s piss right now, you know.”

A grin spreads across Gerard’s face like he’s just heard an inside joke, “Well yeah, I mean, who hasn’t?”

Frank snorts and musters up just enough energy to rearrange himself. He’s curled into a semblance of a ball still, but now he’s got his head in Gerard’s lap which he counts as a definite improvement. That’s one less limb on the piss couch. Gerard absentmindedly twines his fingers through Frank’s hair and slouches, getting himself more comfortable.

Ray reappears in the doorway, and seeing the two of them, doesn’t even bother to enter the room completely. Instead he says, “Hey Gee!” and raises a bottle of water in his hand as well as his eyebrows, giving a slight nod in a silent ‘I’m going to throw this now, please catch something for once in your goddamn life’ sort of gesture. Ray usually likes to hawk the crew as they handle his guitars post show just to make sure everything goes smoothly. It always does, but Ray is just neurotic like that. So Frank knows he’s just itching to go check out the situation.

Frank has seen Gerard play kickball one too many times to not know how this turns out. To say the least, he is wary. Discoordination is an understatement. So of course, he is completely unsurprised when the water bottle bounces right off of the wide open hand he’s holding up (he didn’t even _try_ to grab it did he - it made direct contact with his open palm and he offered not an inch of movement to wrap his fingers around the thing) and falls right onto what he’s pretty sure is his kidney. He lets out a breathy “-ooof” of pain as Gerard makes a soft scream-type sound. He’s scrambling now in an attempt to grab for the water bottle before it can roll off of Frank and onto the floor. 

“Shit, Frankie, I’m sorry, I thought I totally had that. I mean, it was right there, I don’t know what the fuck happened. Are you okay? Did that hurt? Fuck-” he does not, in fact, save the water bottle. He does this weird juggling sort of scenario where he makes multiple points of contact with his free hand, but never actually catches the damn thing and it finally hits the floor with a resounding crunchy thump. “I’m just gonna, hold on, bear with me, Frank. One sec-”

Frank groans as Gerard tries to lean forward even though Frank is taking up half of his lap, he gets a mouth full of salty, damp t-shirt and makes a gagging sound in protest. He can feel what he thinks is Gerard grasping around under the couch for a few seconds before the weight is lifted from his face and a water bottle is stuffed into his hands. 

“Gee, you didn’t even try, it was right in your hand. It bounced right the fuck off. How are you so goddamn hopeless at some things and such a fucking dynamo on stage. I’ll never understand it. You’re like the tenth wonder of the world or something. I don’t know - is that right? What number of wonders is the world currently on?” 

Frank doesn’t do much with the water bottle in his hand, as he still doesn’t feel up to much movement. It’s amazing, to be completely honest, that his mouth is moving, although he supposes that it _is_ pretty hard to get him to shut the fuck up even on his worst days. Which he feels like today just might be in that count.

“Hold on, Frank. You have to - can you just drink the damn water?” Gerard ignores the backhanded compliment and makes an impatient grabby hand at the poor unloved water bottle that Frank is treating like last week’s tuna sandwich. He gets his fingers around the cap and twists it off “Hold on, here. Now you have to fucking drink it.” And he throws the cap across the room, nearly hitting their sound guy who is currently in a deep conversation with Mikey over the cultural impacts of Jar Jar Binks.

“But don’t you think it might be… A little, like, space racist at parts?” He hears Mikey asking. He thinks that this is an interesting talking point and might have to broach it again another day when he doesn’t feel like: even though this is definitely one of the worst couches he’s ever sat on, right now it feels like it’s probably the best couch he’s ever sat on.

“No, Gee, your hand has Hep C on it now. From the under the couch. They’re going to be rebranding it Hepatitis Couch in those pharma commercials. Get it? Because of the, you know… You’re a smart boy. You get it... The water bottle is probably a carrier now.” Frank does actually kind of want the water, but he wants much more for Gerard to make that exasperated face he makes sometimes when Frank just won’t shut the fuck up and do what he’s told (because most often, and whether he believes it or not, it often really is in his best interest to do as he’s told). He also mostly doesn’t want to move just yet because Gerard’s still doing the absent-minded hair twining thing and it feels fucking amazing right now.

Gerard makes a soft “Bp, bp” sound, catches Franks eye, and nods toward the water bottle. He has his goddamn Hep C hand tilting the water bottle ever so slowly toward Frank’s body in general. He is making it abundantly clear that if Frank does not get his ass up and his mouth in the vicinity of that water bottle, he’ll soon be wearing it.

“You are a cruel friend and the worst person I know. If I were your child, the crew would’ve called Child Protective Services by now and you’d be on trial for cruel neglect and harassment, along with many other things I don’t care to list at the moment.” 

Gerard keeps tilting the water bottle, alternating between staring at it, mouth wide and eyes focused, to looking at Frank pointedly, eyebrows raised.

Frank reluctantly unfolds as little as humanly possible while still getting in range of the water torrent his poor body is about to be exposed to. “You would be found so goddamn guilty too. People magazine would have a whole fucking segment on it.” He frowns and grabs the water bottle away from Gerard’s ploying hand, taking a few big gulps before thrusting it back to Gerard.

“See, was that so hard?” Gerard asks, almost patronizing if it weren’t for his goddamn good intentions. And it was hard. Now Gerard’s not doing the hair thing anymore and now Frank can’t explain it, but he suddenly feels like this night probably can’t get any worse.

“You smell like ass.” Frank says resignedly. But it’s true. Gerard has this unique body odor that unforgivingly lingers on whatever it touches. Which is currently Frank’s face.

“You should feel lucky that My Smell has even graced you. You know how much people pay for my sweat towels on Ebay? And here you are getting a front row show, you ungrateful diva.” Gerard emphasizes this by sidling up closer to his grimacing friend.

Frank gags again, more theatrically this time. If anyone is the diva here, it is certainly not him. Okay, maybe a little, but really, Gerard’s one to talk. “Fucking waterboarded me with that shit,” Frank mutters under his breath. 

Gerard rolls his eyes.

“C’mon Frankie, we should get out of the way here. Curfew’s coming up soon. And anyway, as much as you seem to love this couch I really don’t think it’s doing you too many favors. You should get to your bunk.” And even though Gerard is talking in his best dad voice, he’s jabbing at Frank’s ribs with a nubby index finger hard enough to bruise.

“ _Fine_ … Fucking _fine,_ ” Frank whines out, grabbing the water bottle back from Gerard and taking a few more sizable swigs, “Stop molesting my poor ribs, you monster. Before someone calls Chris Hansen on you.”

“Doesn’t he only, like, step in on pedophilia situations and shit like that?” Gerard asks conversationally, eyeing the amount of water remaining in the bottle approvingly.

“I think once he meets you, he’d make an exception. You jacked off a microphone tonight,” Frank says. “Did you even ask it for consent first? Somebody out there needs to stand up for microphone rights. It’s downright uncouth.”

A devilish grin spreads across Gerard’s face, “They fucking ate that shit up though, did you hear the screams?” He doesn’t even make fun of Frank for using an SAT word this time, “I thought somebody might faint.” 

Yeah me, Frank thinks to himself before he has time to stop the words from forming. Fuck. He quickly finishes the last dregs of water left in the bottle, and lobs it into the bin near the arm of the couch.

Gerard stands first, proffering a hand to Frank, who takes it in a dramatic show of ‘this is the very last thing on Earth I want to be doing right now, but you give me no other choice’ sort of way. Gerard hauls him up and guides Frank’s arm around his own back so the shorter man can put some weight on him. It’s actually really sweet, Frank thinks to himself, okay, maybe he’s a little grateful for these savages he calls friends.

Gerard lets Frank hobble with him through the crowded dressing room and towards the door, nodding at his brother as they pass. Mikey nods back in response, not stopping his Jar Jar rant for a beat, “I’m just not so sure he was really _qualified_ to sit in for Padmé on the council, you know-” his voice fades as they exit the room.

“You really do smell just fantastically awful though, Gerard,” Frank says, as they make their way down the hallway to the back doors where their bus is parked. “I think you should see a doctor. It’s just that, I’m touching you right now and I’m going to fucking reak for a month at the very least. This shit better not be like a skin-transmitted disease.”

“Yeah,” Gerard responds, “I ran out of deodorant like three cities ago, but you guys love me and can’t get rid of me, so I have that going for me, which is nice. And you know, you just gave STD a whole new meaning, there. That was impressive, Frankie. There will be research grants named in your honor someday.”

Gerard’s rubbing up against Frankie even more. Frank thinks that he’s probably doing it on purpose now. How does he have such awful, beautiful, god-forsaken friends? 

“I don’t think that the world is quite up to ten wonders, by the way. I think it’s at like, seven or something around there. I’ll settle for being the eighth wonder, though. Not my favorite number, but you know,” Gerard says offhandedly. 

Frank notices that the crew members are giving them a wide berth as they pass through the corridor, and he doesn’t blame them. They know all about Gerard’s lingering odor by now and he thinks for a few seconds about how very smart they are, and that, at least if he has to be surrounded by such idiotic band mates, they have all these sagely crew members to keep them honest. 

“Yeah, don’t let it go to your head, though,” Frank replies.

When they reach the end of the hallway Gerard hits the push bar with his hip. He forces it to open further with his knee and foot so they can proceed through together. Frank takes a long inhale of the fresh outside air, and thinks briefly of dropping to the ground in relief.

“Oh, stop being so dramatic, Frank, It’s not even that bad. This doesn’t even touch Warped Tour, and you know it,” Gerard doesn’t even have the gall to sound ashamed. If anything, he sounds slightly exasperated. It’s really, quite amazing.

If Frank had use of both his hands, he’d make a show of crossing himself and saying as much as he can muster of a Hail Mary. But his left arm is still rather occupied around Gerard’s back, hand fisted into the rough, wet cotton of Gerard’s shirt somewhere near his hips, and he doesn’t terribly mind keeping it there for the moment.

As they’re approaching the stairs to the bus, Gerard makes no move to let the human tumor that Frank has become go, if anything his grip slightly tightens. Gerard wrangles the door open with one hand, once again using his foot and knee to open it wider. He shifts Frank through the doorway and onto the first step, his hand shifts lower on Frank’s back to offer some leverage. Frank, however, did not receive any sort of memo in re: to Gerard’s plan of attack. Gerard has a tendency to do these sorts of things. His brain is so ‘Go! Go! Go!’ all the time and, although his mouth is much the same, sometimes his words just can’t keep up with what’s going on up there. Half the time, Frank thinks, Gerard just expects them all to know what’s going on up there anyway. So, without instruction or communication, nor many remaining brain cells to operate off of for the night, Frank encounters the stairway with all the grace of a beached dolphin. He just kind of flops onto the first step with only the forces of Gerard’s arm and the cruel pull of gravity propelling him forward. His legs stay stubbornly planted on the pavement, so just after his torso falls forward, his legs follow as if surprised, flying up and catching the back of Gerard’s. He lets out a cry, and soon both of them are a mess of limbs spread across the first few stairs of the bus.

“Fuckin’ A, Frank. The Fuck- how fucking hard is it to get on the bus, you fucking terror?” Gerard groans out.

“What the actual fuck, Gee. You just pushed me on it. You didn’t even warn me -- here I am minding my own business trying to get from Point A to Point B in one piece and then you come along. I am a Stair Master, Gerard. Do you know how many stairs I’ve successfully climbed in all my years? Too many to count. I. Am. A. _Professional._ I was doing just fine until you came along.” Frank squirms around, trying to account for all his limbs, but he’s still unsure if that’s his foot or Gerard’s foot, “Shit, i can’t feel my fingles.”

Frank fully expects his friend to harp on how ungrateful he is, and how he’d still be on the piss couch if not for himself, the Eight Wonder of the World, but Gerard lets out this raspy braying laugh, “The fuck did you just say to me? Did you just say _fingles_ . You are definitely not okay. The _fuck_ is a fingle?”

And it’s kind of hard to pay attention to the task at hand (quite literally) when Gerard is making these sounds. His laugh sounds absolutely horrible - like a donkey crying out in surprise. It’s rough and it’s jarring, but it just sort of _does_ something to Frank. He feels goosebumps rise on his arms, and wrestles away a smile as he puts on his best affronted voice, “This is serious. I am dead serious right now. I cannot feel a _single_ fingle.” And Gerard just fucking loses it, his body is shaking and his braying laughter is ringing through the parking lot now.

“These are the money makers, Gerard!” Frank whines out, “I take offense! Do you know how precious these fingers are? To me, to the band, to the **world**?”

Gerard’s laughter has abated enough for him to add to the conversation, it would seem - he manages to wheeze out, “I’m sure there will be memorials held on a global scale should anything happen to them. Businesses will stop, people will pull over on highways, children will sit quietly in their classrooms, all to offer a moment of silence to our dear beloved Frank Iero’s-” He has to pause here, swallowing hard on another bout of laughter and very nearly failing- “Frank Iero’s beloved _fingles_. Every single fingle on his legendary, guitar-loving hands.” 

And then he loses it all over again, his body shaking. And Frank thinks to himself that he really shouldn’t be enjoying this as much as he is. The feeling of Gerard’s body wrapped up around him, shuddering with laughter. Frank comes back to his senses a bit -- they can’t just lay here all night, can they? The others will be here soon and he can just see it now: Bob faux belly flopping on top of Gerard, Mikey making a big show of trying to step over all of it, not wanting to have a thing to do with any of them, Bob grabbing Mikey’s ankles, sending him sprawled among them anyway. Ray with his hands on his hips as he approaches the pile-up, admonishing them all. It’s a miracle they turn up to their shows every night in one piece. And so, he makes a show of extricating his arms from beneath himself and Gerard, shifting his body so he can extend his hands towards the ceiling of the bus. He stretches his fingers around a few times and whispers in a hiss, “ _My preciousssessss._ ” 

Gerard honks out another laugh, wiping at his eyes as he seems to have found his own hands. Frank wouldn’t trade this moment for the world. He finally lets his smile win, tired of hiding it from his best friend, because yes, he was totally being a drama queen. He lets out his own high pitched laugh and gently shoves an elbow into his friend’s side. “C’mon, our spinal cords will not thank us for these stairs in the morning.”

Gerard rises and stretches his back as Frank half-crawls slowly up the stairs. Gerard reaches back down to him, hands everywhere as he helps him to his feet, and soon they’re both hobbling towards the bunks. Frank is still sapped of all energy -- maybe he _is_ getting sick. 

Frank’s bunk is on top of Gerard’s, last on the left, which presents a whole new issue Frank hasn’t yet pondered, but Gerard seems to be all over it already. 

“Okay, Frankie, listen- I’m not trying to poke fun at your height here or anything… I mean, it really is a great opportunity to, so I hope you know how much this hurts me right now. But it’s for you, you know? So, uh, why don’t you just take my bunk tonight? I’ll get up into yours. I’m not sure if your little ten year old legs can make it up there tonight is all. I’m just trying to look out for you here.” He’s running his free hand through his dark, knotty hair. The sweat is slowly drying, Frank can tell by the way Gerard’s fingers snag in crunchy clumps. He’s kind of honored that he’s not even smiling about what he just said. He’s just looking down at him with wide-eyed concern.

Frank smirks in concession “You gonna tuck me in?” He asks, already tumbling (well, more falling gracelessly) onto the bunk. He hears the crumpling of a sketchpad somewhere near his thighs as he distributes his weight across the cot.

“Of course,” Gerard coos with that goddamn sideways grin, “Our sweet baby boy.” Frank knows he’s joking, but that grin is so alarmingly disarming. Frank doesn’t have the energy to rebuke, so instead he just offers his own sloppy smile and sinks down under the covers. The pillow smells like Gerard - musky, with undertones of coffee and cigarettes, maybe a hint of something like cloves. And, oh god, Frank could just drown in this. He can’t help but snuggle deeper into the pillow, burrowing one hand below it to get closer. He almost forgets that Gerard’s still there when he feels a messy kiss planted on his forehead, “Night Frankie” he says, pulling the curtain closed. Gerard’s footsteps fade as he walks back towards the front of the bus (Frank can only hope he’s going back to the venue to take a goddamn shower).

He can feel his cheeks heat up with blush as he thinks - they’re just really close friends, is all.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What with the quarantine, I am working from home, however, it's very day-to-day. I'm hoping to have the next chapter out relatively soon, but we'll see. The first week of the month is always the busiest at my job. And it takes me only about a million read-throughs before posting because I am a perfectionist (even though I know when I finally hit post I'll agonize over things I should have changed anyway). So, leave a comment with your thoughts! Hope you're all staying safe and healthy. xoZee


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frank is a Sex God and he's not even sorry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've been struck by the inspiration bug to write pretty much anything but this (which is usually how writing goes for me, anyway). But I'm being a Good Girl and sticking primarily to this for the moment. I'm really looking forward to writing a horror, nightmare-fueled, Sleep inspired fic next, though. Possibly followed by a delicious boarding school AU with neckties and good-boys-gone-bad? We'll see how much gas I have in the tank. Anyway, here's Wonderwall, enjoy.

Frank wakes up slowly and, even though his entire body is aching in protest, he could swear he’s in heaven. His jeans feel scratchy and somewhat starchy from dried sweat, chafing roughly against his legs as he stirs from sleep. He smells just godawful, and he’s thinking that the sheets in this bunk aren’t doing him any favors; they’re pretty much a lost cause themselves. Despite their offensive odor, though, he somehow feels at home. He’s cocooned in a Star Wars printed blanket, right arm cuddled around a mismatched pillow. He imagines for a second Gerard doing the same thing and feels a lazy grin tugging at his lips. His friend’s dark hair haloed starkly across the linen, his gangly arms wrapped around it, hugging -- what would those arms feel like around him, he begins to wonder... 

Frank’s eyes fly open and he clears his throat abruptly. His mouth feels dry and patchy in spots, and to be honest, his sinuses aren’t faring much better. He can still feel Gerard’s spiral bound sketchbook underneath his thigh, the rounded wires that hold the spine together are pressing against him in mild discomfort. He shifts around a bit in a lackadaisical attempt to rouse himself fully to the land of the living. One hand jostles a half-drunk water bottle, filled with what he thinks might be Gatorade. The bright blue liquid sloshes around as he listlessly tosses it towards the foot of the bunk. He reaches around to explore the contents of the bunk, half out of boredom, half out of curiosity, but mostly to derail the train of thoughts he has tearing around his brain right now. Gerard disappears into this bunk for hours sometimes, curtains drawn for privacy with nothing but the faint hum of his Walkman to remind you that he’s really in there. What does he get up to in here, Frank wonders.

Just then, his fingers brush up against the glossy pages of a zine. Fucking _score_ . He hopes it’s something embarrassing he can tease him about - he’s beginning to run out of ammo. He pulls the book out, shifting his body weight a bit when it catches under him in protest, and oh my fucking god, he should really know better by now, shouldn’t he? He’s staring at the cover of a Grant Morrison: Doom Patrol comic. He really doesn’t know what he expected here. Gerard won’t shut the fuck up about the man; Frank suspects that he has a serious case of Man Crush, and a grave one at that. But Frank has to admit, the cover of this edition, number forty-seven, looks really fucking awesome. Rebis is wrapped in his usual bandages and is striking this dramatic pose, it’s a little racy in a way that a mummy-looking-motherfucker really shouldn’t be, but it just fucking _works_ . The bandages hug his body, forming this beautiful feminine outline aside from the telltale hints of man between his legs. He’s surrounded in hues of orange, amber, and red, and _fuck_ , it’s really impressive, actually. Frank leafs through the pages, interest piqued. It seems to be a pretty decent volume - most of Grant’s creations usually are. Crazy Jane is overtaken by this new personality for the first time - The Scarlet Harlot, and wow are those first few pages something. She’s garbed in tight red lingerie and tearing through the panels in crazed nymphomania. Frank raises his eyebrows appraisingly and closes the book to examine the cover again. He stares at it, biting thoughtfully at his bottom lip, and suddenly a light bulb goes off in his head. Grant, you fucking genius… Frank gets this amazing, stupid, outlandish, awful, _brilliant_ idea.

If Gerard wants to be a tease on stage, he can dish it back. In multiplicity. Two can play at this game, Frank realizes, and suddenly, he feels like he has a lot to prove because Gerard does _not_ know who he’s fucking with here. It’s not like he hasn’t toyed with the crowd before. Half of the time, he does it without a second thought. These things just come naturally to him when he’s bouncing around, tearing through riffs, living the music, tethered to it like it’s his last lifeline. This time will be different though, he’s going to fuck with Gerard. He is going to fuck with him **so hard**. This time, Frank thinks to himself resolutely, instead of teasing the audience, he’s going to be dancing circles around his friend. Whatever Gerard Way can do, Frank can do better. With a wicked grin, Frank tucks the comic book back under the cot and slides out of the bunk. By god, he really hopes this venue has a shower.

A few back stretches and eye rubs later, Frank walks towards the front of the bus to the lounge area, which also houses their makeshift kitchen corner. The bus is in a state of disarray as it often is at this point in the tour, and smells distinctly of old socks. Two of Frank’s guitars are propped against the wall next to the fridge for restringing, he brushes his fingers down their necks as he passes. A few t-shirts are folded on top of the refrigerator; they’ve been there for at least two weeks now and Frank’s still a little unsure whose exactly they are or where they came from. There’s a pile of dishes in the sink that still have traces of yesterday afternoon’s soy sauce and fried rice sticking to them. Next to the sink is a small counter which is home to Gerard’s beloved coffee machine. The red light is on indicating that coffee’s up, however, there’s only dregs left in the stained carafe. Their electric kettle sits beside it, looking pretty desolate itself. It’s on its last legs - every third use it pitches this fit and refuses to heat. You have to take it on and off the stand about a half-dozen times to encourage it into a boil.

Frank is surprised to see that the microwave clock reads 02:03. The bus is already parked in a lot behind tonight’s venue, and the only people left lounging in the common area are Gerard and Mikey. Ray and Bob are probably already inside the venue doing whatever the fuck it is they do in there all day long - braiding each other’s hair and gossiping about Shania Twain, Frank surmises. Mikey’s playing a video game in the corner past the kitchen and Gerard is spread out on the table surrounded by sketch pads and markers. He has his tongue caught between his teeth to one side of his mouth, and his brows furrowed in concentration. Frank turns back to the kettle and lifts it off its stand, fighting with the cap (which grows more and more stubborn with each use). After nothing short of a battle, the lid pops off with enough force to shoot out of Frank’s hands - it bounces off the counter top and into the sink, ricocheting against the plates and cutlery within. The sound jars Gerard from his work - he glances up from his sketching as if surprised to see Frank existing at all, but then offers his friend a warm smile.

“Morning sleeping beauty, how’re you feeling?” He asks a little sardonically with these fucking doe eyes, and Frank’s a little caught off guard by it (he must really need caffeine), so it takes him a half beat to open his mouth in response. Gerard, however, is right onto his next thought “-Oh wait, hold on, Frankie-” Gerard stands and rushes towards him. He takes the kettle from Frank, their hands brushing as he does so and Frank thinks he must’ve slept on it oddly or something, because there’s a little rush of pins and needles in his palm. 

“I made you some tea, just gotta find it,” His tongue is between his teeth again, pressing against one side of his top lip as he places the kettle back on its base and rummages through the refrigerator. “I put it on the top shelf an hour or two ago but then Bob had to go across the street to get these goddamn chicken wings, you know? He got, like, four orders. He said he wanted to go on a chicken wing diet or some shit, said he saw it in some Ask Amy column, right? He had to go and fuck up the whole fridge to get the boxes to fit, but I swear, it’s here somewhere.” He reaches up to scratch his cheek absentmindedly with wide fingers as he leans back to scrutinize the refrigerator as if it’s the Sunday crossword, “I wasn’t sure when you’d wake up, but I just thought, you know, since you looked like shit last night and all, maybe the tea would help.”

That is actually fucking adorable, Frank thinks, aside from the looking like shit part, which he pointedly ignores, and suddenly, he can’t help himself - he comes up behind Gerard and hugs him, clasping his hands around the taller man’s waist, resting his head between his friend’s shoulder blades. Gerard radiates warmth and smells strongly of soap with an undertone of coffee. He must’ve found a shower last night after all. He feels Gerard place a comforting hand over his wrist, so when Gerard bends slightly to have another go at Refrigerator Tetris, Frank moves with him. This isn’t anything unusual, Frank thinks. They really are affectionate friends - it’s always been this way, honestly.

“Ahhh, here we go,” Gerard says with a hint of childish excitement at having conquered The Refrigerator. He pulls out a mug with Frankenstein’s monster’s face plastered to one side (Frank's favorite mug). The liquid threatens to slosh over the rim in his unsteady hand. “The whole bus is gonna stink like barbecue for weeks now - fucking _chicken wing diet_ , can you believe that motherfucker?”

Gerard pivots slightly to open the microwave and shove the mug in, moving his hand off of Frank’s wrist to punch a few buttons and close the door. Frank’s wrist feels cold in its absence, so Frank burrows his face in a little closer to Gerard’s back. With a few beeps, a tinny whir, and a little rumble of protest, the machine kicks into action. Gerard shifts around so he’s chest to chest with Frank and rests a lazy hand on top of his friend’s head. He pushes down on it lightly, angling it so he can place a kiss in a mess of hair at the crown.

“Love you, Frankie,” He says into his hair, and Frank smiles against his chest.

“- GAAAAY!” Mikey yells over his shoulder at them, then he quickly turns back to his game and curses when he sees that Mario, due to his lapse in attention, has been thwamped by a goomba, “I’m gonna puke you fuckin’ nerds.”

Gerard lifts the hand that’s in Frank’s hair to present his brother with a rather rude gesture, “Oh, go suck some more, Mikey,” he retorts flippantly.

“Love you too,” Frank says, except it comes out as a muffled nonsensical string of sounds, something like ‘muffyewdew,’ since his face is currently buried somewhere around Gerard’s shoulder and neck. Gerard knows it, anyway. They say it to each other enough. 

They stand like that for a few moments until Gerard musses his hair a bit and pulls away. He gently pushes Frank towards the side of the table that’s not currently inundated in coffee stained papers, markers, and sticky notes. Frank collapses into the chair and reaches across the table to pick up a few. On one page he finds a monkey with the head of man garbed in a space-suit-type contraption. On another, there’s a close study of hands, ‘hello’ and ‘goodbye’ etched across each palm respectively, a few notes are scratched out along the edges of the paper. A third depicts a boy in a school uniform holding a pocket watch and looking just tremendously solemn, a large ‘5’ is drawn in embellishment as well.

“These are fucking awesome, Gee. Are they all for that same project?” He waves the papers he’s studying up for his friend to see.

Gerard leans back against the counter casually on his elbows, it makes his t-shirt ride up a bit at the waist, exposing a silver buckle clutched around a black leather belt. Frank tries not to look down.

“Yeah, the same stuff I showed you last week. I keep redesigning Space Boy, though,” He waves a hand towards the left-most picture languidly, the one with the monkey-man, “I keep coming up with all these new ideas for him, but I just feel like my drawings aren’t fully capturing what’s in my mind quite yet, you know? Definitely getting closer... It just needs a few more tweaks. I’m pretty happy with the way it’s coming along, though. I just want to make sure that he comes across more human than animal, you know? More relatable despite all the hair and Hulk muscles.”

The microwave lets out a series of shrill beeps, and the whirring purrs to a stop. Gerard turns around to take the mug out, and walks back over to the chair he had been occupying earlier. He places the mug in front of his friend and looks up at him expectantly.

Frank meets Gerard’s eyes and smiles exaggeratedly in a show of gratefulness as he brings the mug to his lips. He takes a small sip to gauge the temperature at first, and then a second bigger one when he finds it suitable to his liking. He’s surprised to find that Gerard used tea from his own stash, a nice black Irish breakfast blend that Frank likes to secret away when he thinks Gerard’s not paying attention. On top of that he’s added some lemon juice and the special Ginger Soother he’s so protective of. 

It’s not uncommon for Frank to wake up to Gerard pitching a diva fit if he thinks someone’s delved into his Ginger Soother stash: _‘That’s_ ** _my_** _special shit so don’t fucking touch it - it’s for my vocal chords. The doctor told me that if I don’t take care of my throat with shit like this,’_ He usually holds up the half empty bottle here, gesticulating at it wildly and continues on in half-mania, _'Then my throat won’t take care of_ ** _me_** _._ ** _Does anybody fuckin’ care right now_** _?_ _The_ ** _DOCTOR_** _said I have to_ ** _drink this shit_** _so don’t_ ** _FUCK_** _with me!’_

It kind of makes Frank laugh every time it happens. He’s become very good at choking down the laughter, though - he wouldn’t dare to let his friend hear the sniggering for fear of incurring his wrath. He doesn’t even feel guilty about it (even though he’s usually the perpetrator). He always makes sure to buy him another few bottles whenever he comes across them, anyway. He wraps them up with these cheesy bows around the necks and leaves them in his bunk as a surprise. He just fucking loves the childish ‘squee’ Gerard can’t help but make upon discovering them.

“Thanks, Gee,” Frank says with a smile sneaking into the corners of his lips, “I’m feeling better already.” 

And he’s not even lying. 

He looks back down at the drawings on the table, almost missing the pleased smile Gerard wears, and definitely missing the faint hint of pink staining Gerard’s cheeks as he continues to snoop through his friend’s sketches.

*

The next few hours pass by relatively uneventfully; soon after Frank finishes his tea, they’re ushered into the venue to sound check and warm up, and _fucking score_ , the venue has a shower. Before he knows it, the lights have dimmed and they’re huddled together backstage. Frank’s stomach is teeming with pre-show butterflies, but as they walk on stage and the crowd erupts, Frank can’t help but let a diabolical smile creep across his cheeks. 

It’s showtime.

Immediately, Frank is off, jumping like a madman, stalking around the stage and working the crowd. By the second song, he’s already drenched in sweat. His mouth hangs open, eyes clenched as he rides each note in blissful abandon, letting the music overcome him. The drums beat out an even pulse, the bass hums low and insistent, vibrating down to his bones, his skin sings as the lights hit him. Gerard’s voice is all around him weaving a siren song, and he forgets himself for a few moments, captivated. The crooning of Ray’s guitar kicks in, grounding him as he frenetically strums out his own part in time. The crowd is absolutely electric tonight and Frank is just eating it up, using their fire to fuel his performance. This is what an overloaded circuit must feel like, Frank thinks. Every hair on his body is standing on end, it’s almost orgasmic. Lightning is shooting through him, and all he can think as he strums is: Harder, Faster, _More_. _This_ is what Frank lives for. Right here, right now; this is all there is.

The next song starts and he just loses himself in catharsis, mouthing the lyrics to the crowd with half-lidded eyes. He lowers himself onto the amp in front of him, straddling it, throwing his head back in ecstasy as his guitar wails through the speakers. He’s bucking against the amp and pressing his hips desperately into his guitar - tonight he is a Sex God. He’s every teen’s wet dream. And he fucking _loves_ it. 

In his peripherals, he notices Gerard’s eyes on him, so he turns to give the dark-haired dynamo this glazed, thoroughly fucked-out look, and he’s somewhat surprised to see that Gerard’s looking pretty glazed over himself. Frank smirks and gets up from the amp, strutting over towards Gerard who quickly averts his attention back to the crowd. Frank comes up behind him and rubs his face against his shoulders, down his back, around his hips, and then Gerard shifts his weight, allowing Frank access to nuzzle into his thighs, and _god_ , it’s close, _so_ close, _too close_. He is so beyond ‘friend’s’ territory now and he doesn’t think he could possibly care less. It’s lewd, it’s _definitely_ crossing _so_ many lines, but goddammit, it’s fucking **delicious**.

Frank looks up at Gerard, holding his gaze, like they’re the only two people left in the world, like he fucking _wants_ it. Gerard is gleaming with sweat, his cheeks are red with exertion, black strands of hair are plastered to his forehead, and Frank thinks for a second that he’s never seen anything so beautiful. Frank gets back to his feet and impulsively grabs a handful of that dark, sweat-soaked hair. He pulls Gerard’s head back, exposing the pale length of his neck and runs his tongue over the smooth skin. Gerard tastes heavily of salt and a little of cigarettes, and it’s wholly intoxicating. He can feel the muscles in Gerard’s neck working up against his tongue as he sings. When Frank reaches Gerard’s ear he just barely traces it with his lips and lets out this throaty, licentious moan. He can feel Gerard’s muscles stiffen against him, and he can’t help but simper as he pushes away, whirling back to his place on stage right. Gerard’s heavy gaze traces after him, eyes cloudy and just barely tripping out the proper lyrics. 

The crowd is in absolute hysteria now, and Frank isn’t too far off either. He’s at the very edge of the stage, a hair away from the push and pull of the audience - he thinks briefly of perhaps jumping into the pit, but at the last moment he pulls away, pacing backwards, inciting the crowd as he backpedals. Then, he’s on his knees in front of the microphone stand, arcing his hips into his guitar in time with the beat and screaming out lyrics to the fans in front of him. He turns his head slightly and sees Gerard heading towards him, watching. Without breaking eye contact, Frank leans forward and lick up the cold metal of the mic stand in an absolutely fucking _filthy_ display. And then, Gerard is there, his hand is ghosting over Frank’s left collarbone, moving down, tracing the angle of it until he reaches the hem of Frank’s shirt. He looks at Frank with wild eyes as he delves under the cotton, caressing down his chest. His hand is rough and hot against Frank’s skin, sweat slicking in its trail. A finger grazes his nipple and Frank lets out a groan in response. The sound seems to shake Gerard from his trance. He looks back at the audience with a half crazed smile and pulls his hand out of Frank’s shirt, spinning away with red cheeks, dancing theatrically as he heads back to stage center. 

And then, before Frank knows it, the lights are dimming and the last notes ring out. The screams fade as he rushes offstage to get first dibs on the shower. He knows there will be no competition from Gerard tonight, since he took his weekly rinse this morning, but Ray’s got all that hair to maintain and a strict care routine that goes along with it. Finding the bathroom unoccupied, he turns the water to cold and rinses off, relishing the chill as it slicks away the post-show heat and sweat and spit and dirt. The bite of the water brings him down from the precipice, he feels himself slowly drifting back down into his own skin again. Lifting an arm to push the hair off his face, he notices that he’s already beginning to feel the tension in his muscles from his on-stage ardor, and he knows that he’ll definitely be feeling sore in the morning. _‘Worth it,’_ he thinks to himself, and he doesn’t even try to keep the smile off his lips.

Later that night, Frank awakens to a soft, rhythmic rustling of blankets and maybe something else. The bus is dark, rumbling down the highway, but under the sounds of the motor there’s some feverish, just barely-there, ragged breathing. It’s hard and heavy, but also half-muffled, as if covered by a blanket or pillow. It’s a sound Frank knows all too well from his own personal bunk experiences - something better left unmentioned in the morning.

The soft gasps of breath are accelerating now, a little more staccato and with a definite edge of desperation until finally it’s punctuated by a half-moment of silence, followed quickly by “Fraa-aah- _aaaah_ -aauh...” 

It’s choked out in a whispered, strangled voice -- Gerard’s voice. And Frank feels something stir deep within him, feels an instinctual, animalistic response of his own forming, but too quickly he’s drifting back to black once again, the swaying of the bus lulling him to somewhere else entirely.

As Frank wakes up the next morning he thinks to himself, _‘What a strange dream_.’ But what’s even stranger he thinks, is what happens next. He gets up to grab some coffee, Gerard’s already sitting in his usual spot, looking down into his own mug as if searching for the answer to life, the universe, and everything. 

Frank muffles out a sleepy ‘Morning,’ and the dark haired man diverts his gaze to the moving scenery outside, half-grunting in response, still lost in thought.

Refusing to meet Frank’s eyes.

For some reason, Frank’s mind wanders back to the dream he had and thinks on it for a minute. 

No, it can’t be…

Can it?

They’re just really close friends, he thinks to himself. 

_Right?_

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, they're not even kissing yet and I'm probably the worst person you know. Regardless, I hope you're all doing well and staying healthy! I've just been obsessing over the Quarantine Coloring Book to stay sane. Much love, xo, &c. Zee.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frank just really likes showers, okay?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No offense to anyone from Michigan, I hear it's great.

Frank is confused. Which is to say, Frank doesn’t know awfully too much about many things to begin with, and he certainly doesn’t pretend to. He’s a college drop out, and even when he _was_ in class he could barely find two shits to give anyway. All he could think about was the show he’d be going to that weekend, or the band practice he’d be joining in on that night instead of the midterm he should be studying for, or this really cool riff that was stuck in his head when he should be taking notes, and none of these things are very conducive to good grades. He doesn’t pretend to know astrophysics, he doesn’t quite understand the particulars of gerrymandering just yet, and if you asked him about the finer points of cultural hegemony, he’d probably give you this really blank, drawn-out stare, then promptly fuck off to do something more interesting (or really anything rather than being any further implicated into such a conversation). What Frank thought he did understand, however, were his friends. He likes to think that he’s a quick social study and not a complete societal pariah. He knows he’s got charisma - it’s the only thing that keeps him out of jail half the time, and most definitely the only reason he's in his friend’s good graces still, to be honest. Except for these past few days, it would seem. 

Frank is beginning to feel like him and Gerard are at opposite ends of a magnet - every time he approaches Gerard, his friend seems to recoil back twice as far. Frank doesn’t know if he should be afraid, offended, or impressed by the whole thing. What he does know, however and with one hundred percent certainty, is that he wants his best friend back. 

He supposes that maybe, somehow, Gerard knows that he heard him, and that maybe he thinks that Frank knows that he knows, and he’s just living with knowing that Frank knows that _he_ knows that Frank knows... And now they’re in this really obnoxious circle of fucking _knowing_ , and Frank’s head is really starting to spin. And all the spinning sort of makes him think back on those little gasping, muffled breaths, that fucking _pause_ , and the garbled half-word that came tumbling out after -- It’s too fucking much. Frank blindly fumbles for the volume controls on his Walkman, turning the sound up a few decibels to drown out the noise in his head. He’s sitting at the table in the bus’s common area, staring out the window as the scenery blurs by. He’s kind of at the point where he’s envious of fucking _trees_ because at least _they’d_ never feel the fucking brooding misery he’s dealing with right now. What a thing to be bitter over, Frank thinks, he’s really off the deep end, isn’t he? 

The bus sways a bit to the right as it takes an off-ramp. Bob is cruising through a Metallica song on Guitar Hero and Mikey is sitting on the sofa next to him, typing away furiously on his sidekick. Gerard is nowhere to be seen - he slipped into the back room hours ago, which is strange in and of itself. Although designed to be a comfy lounge area, the space long ago evolved into a grungy type of storeroom for unsavory miscellany. They tend to use it as an overflow for merch and equipment, but mostly it’s a quarantine room for their sweaty show clothes. The smell in there is nauseating, so Frank thinks Gerard must be particularly desperate. Something is _definitely_ awry. Frank turns away from the window, dropping his head onto his folded arms - he’s a melancholy mess. 

Feeling a sharp jut of an elbow against his ribs, Frank offers a sideways glance at the perpetrator. Ray has collapsed in the seat beside him, dropping scribbled guitar tablature in a messy pile on the table. Frank hadn’t noticed his absence until just now - he must’ve braved the rancor of the back room to go over new song ideas with Gerard. Frank takes a moment to admire his dedication. Looking down at music sheets, he can see Gerard’s tidy handwriting under a few of the bars.

“Hey, dude,” Ray begins, tugging on Frank’s headphone wires so that they slide down and settle around his neck, “Why so glum, chum?” and he’s got this corny-ass smile that would normally make Frank laugh just because he knows it’s in good sport. Frank is aware that really, he’s only trying to cheer him up… But today it just makes him that much more sullen. He knows he’s got this really ridiculous pout all over his really ridiculous face, but he just really doesn’t care. 

So Frank responds in the only way he feels accurately sums up the situation - he lets out a halfhearted grunt, picking at his cuticles glumly.

“Aww, Frankie, don’t be like that, man,” Ray says a little sadly. He reaches a hand around Frank’s shoulders and allows Frank to lean up against him - he knows how Frank lavishes in affection. Try as he might to have this punk-rock persona, he really is the biggest, most fucking cliche teddy bear ever.

“What’s going on Frankie?” Ray continues, more softly this time. 

What a fucking _dad_ , Frank thinks, but rests his head on his shoulder anyway - even though Ray’s curls are tickling his forehead. He doesn’t really want to talk about it, to be honest. It’s kind of a guy-code situation, he thinks; the whole ‘don’t mention it in the morning,’ bus-sharing-mishap sort of dilemma that’s better to just forget. But he can’t. And he doesn’t want them to know how much this whole thing is affecting him, and most importantly, he doesn’t want them to know just how much he might be implicated in the situation to begin with. For fuck’s sake, _he_ doesn’t even want to think about what that one muttered cut-off syllable might mean… He’s not sure if he really _is_ implicated, but that one syllable means everything right now, and, oh _fuck_ , does he have the headache of the century coming on.

Frank doesn’t really have a choice, it would seem. The song Bob’s been tapping out on his plastic guitar ends in a wailing note, and now Bob offers his two cents, “Mom and dad are fighting again,” He says in something akin to a whine, the rat. Frank glares at him, but Bob just shrugs and turns to select his next song.

Ray tips his chair back a bit, glancing over his shoulder and down the hallway at the closed lounge door, realization dawning on his face. “Ahhhhh,” he says quietly, turning back to Frank with a raised eyebrow, all silence and worry and gentle inquiry.

“I don’t _know_ , okay? He just fucking hates me and I don’t know _why_ and I don’t know how to fix it yet, so if you have any of those fucking genius Ray Toro Redress Tactics, that would be great right about now.”

“C’mon, Frankie, he doesn’t hate you, you’re his best friend. I think you’re probably his favorite person aside from Mikey, you know? So stop being so dramatic. He’ll come out of this mood he’s got going on and be up your ass again by next week.”

Frank almost chokes on his own spit at the phrasing there, but manages to pull some semblance of control at the last second. He turns it into this awkward sounding sneeze which awards him a strange under-the-bangs look from Mikey.

“Gesundheit,” Ray says, clueless as ever ( _thank god_ , Frank thinks), “We should really get you some Allegra or some shit when we stop at the hotel. You’ve been off all week. I don’t want your goddamn snot all over the bus again. I don’t understand how you manage it sometimes, Frankie. Your nose should be in the Guinness Book.”

Frank looks up at him with the best kicked puppy-dog look he can manage. His desolation must wear on his friend, because Ray sighs and continues on, “Listen, I’m fresh out of schemes right now, okay? But dude, you gotta fix this shit because I’m not dealing with another Michigan situation-”

“It’s not gonna be another Michigan situation, Toro.” Frank says under his breath, thick with exasperation, but Ray’s looking down at his phone now, preoccupied and punching buttons quickly and with purpose, and Frank’s thinking, ‘ _Excuse me, I am having a fucking_ **_crisis_ ** _right now, sorry if you have something more important going on there in fucking Cyberspace_.’

“You promised, Frank - Michigan is taboo. No more Michigan. Ix-nay on the Ichigan-may, alright? That state has been stricken from all My Chemical Romance records. I’d go as far to say all American History records too, but it would seem that the government is a bit slow on the uptake. If someone came up to me on the street and asked me anything about Michigan, I’d probably tell them that it’s been annexed and launched into space. Michigan is fucking dead to us now, right?”

Frank scowls harder, if possible, but offers a few meager nods, head hung low. The last thing he wants to get into right now is the Michigan Talk.

“Anyway,” Ray continues, checking his phone quickly when it beeps for attention, “You guys are rooming together tonight, so you’ll have plenty of time to wax poetic at each other and fix your shit.”

“The fuck do you mean we’re _rooming together_?! I thought _you_ were rooming with him tonight. The _fuck_ Toro, I thought you fucking **cared,** you absolute fucking _monster_! What about Mikey? He can like, Sister’s Keeper him or some shit.” Frank points desperately at Mikey, who is still furiously texting, and Frank can only assume it’s Alicia because he has this look of extreme focus gripping every single muscle in his face, the tension only emphasizing a glaring blush. He’s probably asking about her bra color, or what flavor lip gloss she’s wearing today, or whatever the fuck it is he talks to her about all fucking day.

Ray just shakes his head, “Frank, I don’t think that movie’s about what you think it’s about, but yeah, I just texted Brian,” he says, angling his phone so Frank can peek the screen, “I switched to room with Bob - he just confirmed the change soooo…” He does this movement with his hands and shoulders simultaneously that Frank takes to mean ‘whelp’ or ‘c'est la vie’ or some other shit he can do nothing about. “And no, Mikey’s already told me about Alicia’s underthings twice today and I didn’t even want to hear about it the first time. He used the word _panties_ at me.” Ray pulls this really terrorized look where both corners of his lips go in opposite directions, shaking his head emphatically, “He wouldn’t switch with you if you offered him afternoon tea with Mark Hamill.”

Frank groans and sinks down further into the seat with a groan of disgust and says, “I hope the next time you buy gum that they only have expired Juicy Fruit.”

“Ouch, Frankie. That was so mean. Like, low blow, dude! I fucking hate Juicy Fruit, you _know_ that. It is the _actual_ worst. What person was like, so you know gum? So nice and refreshing and minty and good? Yeah, no, make it fruit flavored instead, that’ll be a hit.. I hope the guy behind Juicy Fruit is put away for life, you know? He’d have to plead insanity on that one, though. Really, Frankie, don’t be an ass.”

“Sorry man, you’re right, that was out of line, I love you, you know that, I really do - except that right now I just really, _really_ don’t... Fuck, Ray, I just can’t believe you’ve done this.”

Ray just fucking _grins_ , the madman.

The bus is slowing now, pulling into a parking lot, and Frank’s dread is mounting. The hotel is looming over them looking, in Frank’s mind, like something out of the Twilight Zone. With another groan, he makes a quick grab for his overnight bag and bolts out of the bus barely before it’s stopped moving. He makes the hard decision of leaving his guitar behind this time, but only at Brian’s continued behest. The last hotel night they had, he had gotten them in a shitload of trouble for playing too late past curfew (who even knew there was a curfew to begin with, he’d argued on deaf ears). Apparently there was an elderly couple rooming next to them and they had complained to the front desk enough for word to get back to the band’s management, and he really didn’t want to deal with another bitchy Brian phone call tonight. He has enough on his plate as it is. 

Frank shuffles quickly through reception, head hung low, claiming his room key from the receptionist as quickly and unassumingly as he can. He takes the stairs up five floors to avoid any unwanted elevator confrontations (or really, just the one unwanted confrontation) and soon he’s standing in front of room 527. He slides the key into the slot and pushes the door open as the red light buzzes green. 

The room has this really laughably outdated teal and peach patterned carpet, but the sheets are a clean, crisp white and there’s a sizable television, so Frank can’t really complain. He walks over to the window, placing his JanSport on the floor beside it and easing the curtains open a bit. It reveals an urban vista of an overpass and a particularly grungy looking McDonald's. Well, they’re definitely not paying for the view, Frank thinks.

He leans down and unzips his backpack, pulling out a Ziploc bag containing shampoo, soap, a toothbrush, and a cinnamon and clove candle. He doesn’t even care how much Bob makes fun of him for it - he’ll never make him feel fucking guilty over enjoying the tranquility of a cinnamon-clove-candle-shower. He'll never understand this level of zen, and that’s Bob Bryar’s fucking loss. 

Frank fishes a lighter out of his jeans, slipping it into the bag as well, and tosses them on the bed nearest the window. He strips down quickly, leaving his clothes a wrinkled mess on the floor. He makes a grab for his makeshift toiletry bag, and heads into the bathroom. As Frank swings the door shut behind him, there’s still no sign of his roommate, and he can’t help but let out a long sigh of relief. 

Frank lights the candle and hits a switch on the wall, sending a low hum through the room as the fan starts to vent. He turns to the shower and runs the water hot. After a few moments, he steps into the stall, just as the smell of cinnamon fills the small bathroom and the water warms. He starts lathering soap against his skin, washing away the sweat and dirt clinging to his skin from last night’s show. Tilting his head back, he savors the heat as it cascades over him, running through his hair and soaking into his skin.

He allows his mind to drift over the events of the past few days. His hand wanders down his chest, slippery with soap, past his belly button, ghosting over the curls near the curve of his waist, and then continuing lower. He finds that he really can’t help himself - he lets out a soft moan in defeat as he acquiesces to baser instincts. His fingers brush against the tender skin between his legs, and he closes them around himself. Images flicker behind his closed eyes as he starts stroking slowly, and he allows himself to get lost in them for the moment; he thinks of black hair and hazel eyes, tight black pants, ripped near the crotch ( _such a fucking tease_ , he thinks). He can almost feel a phantom hand tracing its way along his collarbone, ghosting over his nipple, rough skin whispering down his chest, slick with sweat. He tastes salt and cloves and smoke and remembers the feel of muscles moving under his tongue. Frank can feel tendrils of steam curling around him now, licking at his skin, but he’s not sure what’s hotter - the water, or the heat his body is giving off. He hears that heavy breathing that’s been echoing in the back of his mind for the past few days, desperate and close - a raspy voice murmuring his name, completely wrecked, almost unintelligible, so completely filled with need, and Frank is feeling pretty wrecked himself right now. His heart is racing and his blood is running wild, he can feel the pulsing in the skin under his fingers, he can hear it pounding loud in his ears. The sweet spell of tension is reaching a crescendo as he quickens, mouth slack as his breaths come out rapid and labored and harder to subdue. He sees Gerard’s face behind his closed eyes, wearing a similar slack-jawed face, eyes lidded and looking so goddamn _fuckable_. Frank wonders if the faces he makes onstage, ones like these, are what he’d really look like if Frank were to touch him like this. And then, _fuck_ , he really can’t hold on anymore, it’s just too fucking much - he can’t help himself as he finishes, tipping over the edge with a low, shattered whimper, leaning against the wall as white flashes hot behind his eyes. The tiles are cool despite the heat of the water - he slumps against them, face serene as he rides the after pulses, brows knitted, the chill of the tiles bringing him back down to Earth.

“Fuck.” He whispers to himself after a few moments, breath still ragged and voice raw as he runs his hands under the spray of the shower head, cleaning away the evidence of what just happened. He runs a hand down his face, wiping away the excess water (and probably a bit of drool) in a boneless attempt to compose himself. What the _fuck_ has he gotten himself into here, he wonders - the fact that he’s thinking about not only a man, but his best friend when he’s got his hand around his dick. He is so far gone, and he’s starting to feel sort of ‘fuck it’ about the whole thing, to be completely honest. But that’s an entirely different matter to ponder on another day. Right now, Frank is feeling pretty spent.

The water is starting to show signs of cooling, so Frank gives his hair a quick wash and turns the faucet off, cursing hotels for their shoddy pipes. He grabs for a nearby towel and steps out of the shower. Tying the towel around his waist, he walks to the sink, and takes his toothbrush from the Ziploc bag, drowning it in hotel toothpaste and brushing his teeth a little too forcefully. As he brushes, he locks eyes with Mirror Frank, willing the doppelganger into a return to sanity. He spits and takes a few deep breaths, hands braced on the lip of the sink as he looks up again to stare at himself in the mirror. ‘ _J_ _ust be fucking normal,’_ he wills the man staring back at him, ‘ _For once in your goddamn life. Normal._ **_Please_**.’

A few minutes later, Frank’s stepping back into the shared bedroom, steam slithering out from around the door as it eases open. The curtains have been drawn closed again and the room is dark. The television is blaring Kill Bill Volume 2 - Frank almost jumps out of his skin when he turns from the television to the bed closest and sees Gerard staring at him, wide-eyed. His already pallid skin is bathed in hues of blue as the picture on the screen transitions to a moonlit graveyard. Gerard’s cheeks are stained slightly in what looks to be purple, and Frank doesn’t miss it when his gaze flicks down to his bare chest. Gerard gulps and quickly averts his gaze to the ceiling, staring at it as if the movie were playing there and not on the screen across the room.

“Oh, hi. Hi, Frankie - I uh, I thought I was sharing with uh, with Ray tonight.” He prattles out awkwardly. The television’s flickering light is playing off the angles of his face, making his eyes appear sunken and his cheeks sallow. He looks like he’d be at home in that graveyard, actually - just another creature of the night (not that that’s much different from normal, actually). Except now the picture’s changed again, camera sinking underground to reveal the famous coffin scene, and warm light chases away the shadows. Gerard looks kind of like when Frank first met him for a moment, young, baby-faced, and red-cheeked. All naivety and soft, anxious angles. 

Frank reaches one hand up to tousle some water out of his hair, more out of awkwardness than necessity. “Yeah, that makes two of us, bud.” Frank can feel the excess water dripping from his hair down his shoulders and chest now. 

Gerard clears his throat and starts fumbling around for the remote. “I uh, I hope you don’t mind Kill Bill. There isn’t shit on this TV, but I can change it if you want anyway. I know you’ve seen it like five times already or something on this tour alone. I don’t know why these hotels all have the same goddamn movies on demand.” 

He’s trying to rub at his eyes now with the remote hand, but has only managed to poke himself with it so far. He manages to shrug off the pain like a champ, though, so Frank decides to take mercy on him. He offers a shrug and says, “I don’t mind. Can’t have too much Pussy Wagon in your life, right?” Frank finds his feet and heads over to his bag, cursing himself for not bringing a change of clothes with him into the bathroom. Nudity or lack of clothing has never really been too much of an issue between him and his band mates, or even much of an afterthought for that matter. They all lived in the same van for the first few years of their career, after all. They’ve all seen some shit, to say the least.. But for some reason, it seems very important right now.

He shuffles quickly over to the window where he left his overnight bag and rummages through it, pulling out flannel pajama bottoms and an old, battered Misfits tee. There’s a hole under one armpit, and fraying at the collar from too many wash cycles. Frank pulls them on as quickly as he can, only removing the towel once the waistband of his pajama pants are fit snugly around his hips. He sneaks a glance over at Gerard, who looks just about as miserable as Frank feels. 

He forces himself to walk over to the side of his bed that’s closest to Gerard’s and sits on the edge, feet planted on the floor and elbows braced on his knees. His hands are clasping between his legs and he hangs his head, bowed in utter defeat.

“Gerard- Gee, please,” He chokes out, voice shaking slightly as he lets his emotions and all the stress from the past few weeks take over. “What’s going on, Gerard. You can’t just keep treating me like fucking shaved-head Britney over here. Why the fuck are you avoiding me?”

He’s looking up at Gerard now through his hair, almost afraid of what his friend will say, or what he’ll see written on his face. He’s surprised when Gerard’s expression just caves in on itself, moving from shock to guilt to sorrow. 

“I’m sorry, Frankie, I-” he drops the damn remote and holds a hand out to Frank, who takes it and rolls onto the bed next to Gerard, “You didn’t do anything, Frank. It’s me. I’m just so fucked up right now, I’m just fucking lost in my own head kind of, you know?”

They’re laying side by side now, both staring up at the ceiling. Frank still has his hand on Gerard’s, the physical touch bridging the chasm between them. He gives a little squeeze, “Want to talk about it?” he asks, softly.

Gerard shakes his head, “Not right now... Soon, though. I have to like, organize my mind palace a bit more, you know? I will, though. Eventually. Promise, Frankie.”

“Alright Moriarty,” Frank replies, smirking as he snuggles closer into the blankets, allowing himself to get more comfortable, letting the tension bleed away.

Gerard glances over and smiles in that heart-wrenchingly child-like way he does sometimes.

“We good now?” Frank asks.

Gerard nods almost shyly, and they both turn their attention to the movie. Soon, they’re bantering over the dialogue like Crow and Tom Servo, and that’s when Frank knows that everything's going to be okay; he has his best friend back.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gerard's really going through it, huh? I ended this chapter a little earlier than I originally planned so the next chapter has more flow to it. Also if you haven't seen Frank's Medicine Square Garden MV, do yourself a favor and GO WATCH IT. It's brilliant. Catch you all soon & much love. xoZee


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "This is bullshit" and then "Fuck it" encompasses it, pretty much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been pretty good about updating this weekly except the past two weeks this whole crazy state of the world had me feeling all sorts of ways, so I took a bit of a break from writing. Hope you're all doing well and tending to your own mental health during this. I'm just really glad that Frank's still grinding those beans.

Frank opens his eyes slowly, lids heavy with sleep and stubborn to obey. The room slowly swirls into focus as his brain becomes reintroduced to his body. The television is playing early morning infomercials, harping about some magic sponge that can sop up a whole bottle of wine (Frank has his doubts). The voice is shrill and artificial sounding against the still of the room. 

There’s tendrils of light straining through cracks in the curtains, dust swirling in the thin beams that filter through. The bed beside the window is empty, sheets still folded crisply, and that’s when Frank notices that there’s an arm around his waist and heat at his back. His mind is slow to process the who, where, and why. As he attempts sluggishly to remember what exactly happened last night, he reaches up to brush away a strand of hair that’s tickling his cheek, unsure if it’s even his own. A warm breath is at the nape of his neck, coming out in long, humid exhales and he can feel a sharp nose pressed against where his hair meets his spine. 

On the bedside table next to him, Frank spots a notebook and that’s all he needs to put together the pieces. Gerard likes to fall asleep with a light on most nights, just in case he wakes up with strokes of inspiration. He writes his thoughts down in the stupidest fucking notebook you’ve ever seen - some dollar store Lisa Frank rip-off with a sparkly pony on the cover and rainbow colored lines stretching across each page. A few of the silver flakes embedded in the horse’s mane are reflecting rainbow prisms on the ceiling above him. He bought it a few months ago when they stopped at a run-down shopping center just off the turnpike for random necessities. He calls it his ‘Idea Book’. Bob calls it an embarrassing piece of shit. At this point, Gerard is usually throwing something relatively unassuming (with poor aim) at their drummer and squawking, “This is where the magic happens, baby!” Frank can’t help but smile just thinking about it. 

He remembers making it through Kill Bill last night, but his recollection starts to dissolve away in pieces after that. He vaguely remembers pyramids, sand, and Brendan Fraser.

Shifting slightly, he turns to look at the man sleeping behind him. As he moves, Gerard stirs a bit as well, rubbing the point of his nose further into his neck, arm pulling tighter around his waist. Frank can feel a furious blush heating his cheeks. Gerard’s breaths grow shallower, sending his thoughts reeling. What’s the best course of action here, he wonders, scenarios flying through his mind at a mile a minute. He doesn’t know whether to make an escape or double down. The thing he’s getting more and more sure of, however, is that he’s tired of fighting this. And is that really so bad, anyway? 

_‘This is bullshit,’_ Frank thinks to himself. And he’s nothing if not honest. He’s so fucking tired of dancing around this, of reasoning it away. What’s so wrong about it to begin with? He’s been cuddled up this close to Gerard before. All those freezing nights spent in a van without the heat running - Ray saying something about carbon monoxide poisoning, and dying without knowing that you’re dying. There wasn’t much more you could do some nights to chase the cold from creeping into your bones. At that point, you’d burrow into just about anything for warmth. Frank couldn’t help but praise young Skywalker with his innovative Taun Taun problem-solving techniques on nights like that. He can’t help but remember how the best of these nights were the ones he spent asleep next to Gerard. He’d bury his hands in his friend’s hoodie pocket for warmth and maybe for something more, something unspoken. They were usually so far gone those nights that it didn’t matter. These memories are rough around the edges, so fuzzied by drink and substances that sometimes Frank wonders whose hands belonged to who exactly, or if it really happened at all to begin with. 

It’s certainly not that Frank is a homophobic by any stretch of the imagination; he’s always been outspoken about his views on this. Him and Gerard could have hour long conversations about their admiration for Iggy and Freddie, about how they revolutionized sexuality and gender in the music industry, how this is something they wanted to bring to their own fans. Despite being born to a Catholic family, even having attended Catholic school, Frank was raised to believe that gender held no sway over matters of the heart, and he was so thankful to his parents for that. He was never shy to explore, never timid to touch. To Frank, it didn’t matter what you had going on between your legs. It was about the connection, the chemistry, that unspoken _something_. The fact that he’s even considering this as a variable is entirely laughable, so he puts it to rout.

Frank thinks that what he’s most afraid of is Gerard himself. He’s so terrified of losing the best thing in his life, so absolutely petrified of the bleak, bottomless void he’d face without him. He doesn’t think he could live a life like that, he doesn’t think he would survive it. From the minute he laid eyes on Gerard he kind of knew it already, even if he was too afraid to really recognize it until just recently - too afraid to explore the feeling, to hold it in his hands, to let it roll over his tongue. It’s that goddamn smile, Frank thinks, the way it just creeps up on him sometimes, chasing away his thoughts the minute the smile reaches Gerard’s eyes - all crooked teeth and beaming innocence. Can you really blame him? 

He’s pushed it down for so long, this aching feeling, willing it away. Even when his heart’s stopped while his stomach is somersaulting. He can’t help the way his eyes search out Gerard’s from across the room when he hears that ridiculous laugh so that he can steal a little moment of that happiness just for himself, secreting it away like some weird sort of fucking smile hoarder. 

Frank is so done fighting this. At least for right now. He can give himself just this moment.

But too late, he realizes that he’s staring over his shoulder into a pair of sleep-lidded hazel eyes. He feels his bravado and self-suredness deflate suddenly, tastes the tang of fear, bitter in the back of his throat. 

Gerard moves away a bit to stretch his neck. There’s a few soft pops as his vertebrae slide against each other. Glancing over at the television he asks blearily, talking out of the side of his mouth, “Oh man, we missed the mummy-face sandstorm, didn’t we?” His voice is scratchy and sleep-laden. When he turns his gaze back to Frank, his eyes are soft, fogged with drowsiness. 

Frank is at a loss, he’s not sure if Gerard realizes that his arm is still wrapped around him, fingers brushing skin where the hem of his shirt rides up above the waistband of his pajamas. He can’t possibly have processed the state of their limbs - interlocking like some Dali-esque jigsaw. Their legs are intertwined at odd angles that really shouldn’t feel as comfortable as it does. He knows how hopelessly oblivious to the world Gerard is without coffee, so he chalks it up to that. He holds his breath, keeping as still as possible, afraid to break the spell. But he knows they can’t stay like this forever. He has to do _something_ here - so is it fight or flight?

“Guess so,” He mumbles out, because he realizes that maybe Gerard’s actually expecting an answer here.

Frank turns over slowly so they’re chest to chest. _‘Fuck it,’_ he thinks to himself, pressing against Gerard slightly so he’s on his back. He slides in to rest his head on Gerard’s chest, snuggling in closer. _‘Please just give me this moment,’_ he’s thinking again, but he doesn’t know who exactly he’s pleading with. The hand that had been resting on his waist is now bunched up under his shirt. He feels Gerard trailing fingers down his back, soft and slow, and all his synapses are firing at once making him lightheaded and audacious. 

He loses what little self control he has left - he tilts his head so that he can ghost his lips over a hint of pale skin exposed near the collar of Gerard’s Iron Maiden tee, catching on the angle of his collarbone. The movement feels so beyond him, like there’s a marionette pulling at his strings and he just doesn’t fucking care, he gives himself over completely to the powers that be. Gerard’s skin is warm and sinfully soft under his lips, he can feel the small vibrations of a barely-there moan echoing deep in the base of his throat.

“Frankie” He gasps out hoarsely, and that’s all the encouragement he needs. He arches up further to place his lips against Gerard’s neck, harder this time, more wanting, imploring. He tastes the faint lingering of smoke and it drives him a little mad for a moment. Gerard tilts his head back, allowing Frank more skin to explore. He parts his lips so his tongue can press softly to Gerard’s pulse, feeling the heartbeat rising up against it. The beats quicken against his tongue, and it only feeds his want for more. He sucks in softly in a swell of bravery, hearing Gerard’s breath catch. On the next kiss he moves up, nipping lightly, to taste his jaw, shifting his body as he does so. His leg brushes closer to Gerard and he barely stifles a slight gasp of surprise as he brushes up against proof of just how much Gerard is enjoying what Frank’s doing to him. This small touch seems to break Gerard from his stupor - his eyes snap open, glassy but suddenly alert. He’s looking down at Frank, unhindered terror chasing away the sleep that had been there seconds ago.

Then he’s recoiled away like a sprung trap. “Fuck, Frank, I-” He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes tight and taking in a long, shaky breath.

“Gee-” Frank starts, moving closer, but Gerard just flinches away, extracts himself from the covers. He nearly falls over the edge of the bed in his haste to get up.

And then he’s just standing there, braced against the bathroom door. His hand is rubbing at his eyes, palming his cheeks, pressing against his nose. “‘M sorry Frank, I don’t know what happened. I just- You know how I get before coffee, I don’t know-” 

“Gerard, no-”

“I gotta- I’m gonna shower. I don’t know, Frankie. Can we just forget about… You know. I just think maybe it’s for the best. I must’ve thought you were someone else... Still waking up and all that. I can’t- We… S-sorry.”

Frank can feel his heart breaking. Gerard doesn’t say much, but what he’s said is everything. Gerard doesn’t even _like_ showers. 

Frank always thought that all the sappy poetry and literature about matters of the heart were so fucking dramatic, but he gets it now. The pain is sharp and aching and everywhere. But the poets got it fucking wrong, he thinks. It’s so much worse than they could ever describe. They always talk about how heartache lives in the caverns of your chest, pounding at your ribs, clawing at your sternum. But Frank can feel it in the tips of his fingers, echoing in the bones of his knuckles, thrumming deep behind his eyes, coiled tight and angry like a snake in the base of his throat. It’s thick and heavy and so fucking dark - it’s dragging him under and he feels like he might drown in its murky undertow.

“No, Gerard, stop.” He croaks out, “Can we just- Can we talk?” And he knows he’s got this pathetic, pleading look written all over him and he couldn’t care less. “ _Please_.”

“Frank, **no.** ” Gerard says so forcefully that Frank feels like he’s been slapped. “I- just leave me alone, okay. I fucked up. Just leave it. I need a shower and some fucking coffee is all.”

He won’t even look at him now, and Frank gets it. Gerard’s putting this on himself. He reads the guilt in the slightly furrow of Gerard’s eyebrows and the tension at the corners of his mouth, the shaky hand combing through his hair. It’s so bewildering, Frank thinks. It’s not like he was the one doing anything, for fuck’s sake. He just laid there. He doesn’t know what to feel worse about: the blame Gerard’s putting on his own shoulders or the rejection choking him tight and vise-like. _But he had liked it_ , a voice argues in the back of his mind. He’s holding on to that low moan like a lifeline. There were no drugs or alcohol to muddy the memory this time.

“We have to check out soon,” Gerard says, glancing at the digital clock on the bed stand. He reaches down to grab his overnight bag clumsily, a pair of well-worn converse tumble out from the broken zipper before he can grab the flaps together. “Let’s just get our shit together and get to the bus.”

And then he disappears into the bathroom before Frank can get a word in edgewise, closing the door behind him and leaving Frank alone to wallow. He turns and buries his head into the pillow. It swallows up the curses that spill off his lips.

*

“I told you to fucking fix it, Frank.”

Ray’s glaring at him from behind his guitar. They’re backstage warming up and Gerard is nowhere to be seen.

“Dude, I totally did, except then, you know… I didn’t. I don’t know. But I really tried, okay?” He riffs off of the chords Ray’s playing without really listening to them as he rebukes. “I really did fix it for a while, then, you know, shit just happens.” 

Bob’s on the coach drumming against the armrest and Mikey’s beside him running through some scales. Ray’s still glaring. The shrug Frank gives only seems to deepen the scowl on his face.

“You’re a menace.”

Frank smirks, “You love it, though.”

There’s a smile fighting to break through Ray’s frown. He purses his lips to chase it away and raises his pick hand to point at Frank’s chest, “Fix it.” Then he turns towards the couch, away from Frank to play some chords over Mikey’s strumming. 

To be completely honest, though, Frank’s never really been incredibly good at following instructions.

“The fuck did you do now?” Bob asks, throwing him an accusatory look, but still drumming a steady beat against the armrest.

“Oh I ah- stole his tea again. You know how he gets about that shit.” Frank’s staring hard at the neck of his guitar, one hand twiddling with the tuning pegs even though the notes have been ringing out clear and true. “Like it’s fucking gold in the Great Depression.” He’s never been a great liar.

“You’re the worst fucking liar I’ve met in my life, Frankie.” Mikey mumbles, and Frank just smiles, praying that it meets his eyes.

“Somebody’s gotta set the bar.” Frank says glibly.

They're interrupted by a crew member indicating that it's time to head onstage and Frank cannot feel more relieved. Gerard shows up last, ambling on just before his cue hits. 

And fucking hell, Gerard is _intoxicating_ tonight. He’s putting all the tension from the past few days behind every move he makes. Everything he does, every lyric he sings is more dramatic than usual, multiplied by ten. Frank can’t tear his gaze away. But every time he thinks he might catch his eye, Gerard turns his back to him. 

He’s captivated as Gerard steps up on an amp, legs spread and eyes wild. He can almost feel the skin under the hand that Gerard drags down his neck, catching the hem of his collar and pulling as he trails it down his chest. He watches as he wrangles crazedly with the waist of his jeans, thrusting a hand down under it, gripping himself between his legs. He’s throwing his head back, mouth open in ecstasy as he gives a few teasing strokes, and the audience is at a climax. Frank nearly is himself, and fuck if he doesn’t love every second of it. He’s thankful for muscle memory, because he really doesn’t know how he remembers the chord’s he’s supposed to be playing. 

When the last few notes of Prison ring out, Gerard doesn’t come to his side of the stage, doesn’t even _look_ at him. He stays safely near Ray, teasing the crowd from behind his curly haired human shield.

 _‘Bullshit,’_ Frank thinks to himself. This is absolute fucking _bullshit_. And how many fucking times has he thought that today? He’s getting real tired of this fucking dance they‘re doing. During the next song, he strides center stage, daring Gerard to challenge him. He just stands there, playing his heart out to the crowd, _owning it_. 

And then Gerard is there, keeping his distance, respecting Frank with a five foot radius, and isn’t that just the absolute most bullshit thing Frank’s ever seen in his entire life? He lets a final note wail out as Gerard comes to stand next to him, and finally sees his opening. He has no more shits to give, and quite frankly, he has nothing to lose at this point. Up here, under the stage lights and high on the music - this is the one place where anything goes. He’s seen the videos online, is aware of the fanfiction that exists, the ones centering around him and Gerard and the things they might do when the lights go out. He rationalizes that if he goes through with the ploy in his head, there’s really no losing. The horny teens get their fanservice, the homophobes can choke on their vomit, and he gets to taste the mouth he’s been thinking about all fucking week. The endorphins coursing through his blood are calling for action and who is he to deny them?

Pushing his guitar behind him, Frank reaches up to catch Gerard’s face between his hands in a firm grip. He takes a second to drink in the shock playing across the hazel eyes in front of him before he presses his mouth to his friend’s. It’s by no means graceful, far from romantic, completely incorrigible. Teeth clatter against teeth the moment their mouths meet, Frank shifts slightly with chapped skin, brushing against Gerard’s bottom lip and deepening the kiss slightly and there’s a low rumble of a moan, but he can’t tell which one of them it’s coming from. 

Gerard is reeling backwards in surprise, scrambling for purchase. Frank is there, pushing harder, taking all he can from him. It’s rough and raw and desperate, but it’s just fucking _everything_ right now and Frank can’t get enough. He tastes tobacco and coffee, and something that’s just so heady, so entirely _Gerard_. He braves running his tongue over the lip he’s sucking, teasing it gently, promising and tantalizing, challenging a response. At the same time, though, he tenses the fingers that are holding Gerard’s head in place, a not so gentle reminder of who’s in control here. They’re both slick with sweat, Gerard’s lips are slippery from singing against Frank’s, but it somehow just makes it better. Frank’s tongue comes back with the slight buzz of salt, and as he pulls it back there’s a whisper of a whimper vibrating off of Gerard’s lips. Frank can’t help but smile against them. 

Frank pulls away, leg popping up behind him in a small show of victory as he traipses back to his microphone. Gerard’s voice is shaky and slightly manic when he picks up the song again, but he hides it well enough. Ray is glaring at him from across the stage and Mikey is just shaking his head, staring hard at his fret board. Even though Frank knows there’s definitely going to be another talking-to later, he doesn’t think anything’s been more worth it in his life. He can still taste Gerard on his lips, he runs his tongue along it with a smirk as the lights dim.

_'Fuck yeah.'_

*

“This really doesn’t help Frankie” Ray says, toweling off some of the sweat from his face. Frank’s leaning up against the wall guzzling down water in an attempt to cool down from the encore. He doesn’t miss the accusation thick between Ray’s words.

“I can’t believe I have to fucking babysit you.” He continues, tossing the towel down and picking up his water bottle for a quick swig. His voice has gone all tense and shrill and Frank should really be more concerned than he is. “I’ve met your parents, they’re wonderful people. I don’t know how they brought up such a complete fucking moron.” He’s nudging Mikey for help now, but the taller man is just shaking his head, hands on his hips as he glares at the ceiling.

He takes a really deep breath, still staring at the popcorn plaster “I want no fucking part in this. The second any of you assholes goes near my brother’s lips,” And here he blanches, pulling this really pained face as he chokes the word out, “Or so much as mentions them, you can forget about it. I am fuckin’ _out_.” And then he’s stomping out of the room as hard as those twig legs will allow, digging his sidekick out of the tight pocket in his jeans, “Not my business,” he reiterates over his shoulder as he turns the corner.

“Listen Toro, I have a plan, okay?” Frank’s words are met with a raised brow and a dubious leer. “Really, there’s just like, lots of moving pieces, but it’ll come together. Patience, Pinky.”

“Who the fuck you calling Pinky you fucking troglodyte? Do we need to review who The Brain really is here? How many times do your plans fall to shit, Frankie?”

“Well I don’t think the tally is really that important-”

“The tally is everything. And the answer is: Every. Fucking. Time.”

“Quality over quantity, my friend.”

Ray lets out an incredibly drawn out, perplexed groan of frustration at this. “You know what, dude, _fine_ , but you better not fucking Frodo this shit up.”

Frank puts his hands up in innocence (or at least, he hopes it comes across that way) and asserts, “Nothing but Gamgee here.”

And just like that Frank is so absolutely fucked. Fuck if he knows about a plan, he’s just following his heart and his gut. And okay, maybe his dick a little too. Last he checked none of those organs were anywhere near the one he should be listening to.

He needs a smoke and he needs it right the fuck now. 

“It’s not the effectiveness of the plan, it’s how you use it.” He says as he starts walking away to have that smoke.

“That doesn’t even make sense, asshat-” Ray’s calling after him, his voice fading as Frank leaves the dressing room.

Frank makes his way through the venue and out the back door. The parking lot is illuminated in tones of orange and blue from where the streetlights and the moon chase each other. The night air is bitter cold, biting the tip of Frank’s nose and numbing his fingers as he fumbles to light his cigarette. 

Leaning against the coarse brick, Frank takes a long drag, staring up at the moon. It’s a pale Cheshire Cat grin against the hazy cerulean of the Chicago horizon. As he exhales a plume of smoke, he's surprised to see Gerard barreling out from the door next to him, rounding on him.

The taller man reaches out and snags the cigarette, fingers brushing warm against Frank’s. Bringing it to his lips, he watches Frank with a considering stare. As he inhales, the light of the cigarette illuminates his eyes. Frank feels like they’re smoldering into his soul and, god, that can't be good. And speaking of - Gerard looks something like a fucking god himself right now, smoke curling around him in the moonlight. Frank can’t help but think that this is one god he’d gladly get on his knees for.

When Gerard hands the cigarette back to Frank, his hand lingers a few seconds longer than necessary, sending his heart racing. Before Frank can say or do much of anything, though, Gerard has a hand to the back of his neck and another forcefully angling his jaw up, and then Frank’s mind goes blank. 

Gerard presses his lips to Frank’s.

Gerard’s kissing him.

 _Gerard’s_ **_kissing_ ** _him_.

 _Gerard_ is kissing **him**. 

Frank moans into Gerard’s mouth - the sound gets lost between them as he tilts his head, brushing his lips along Frank’s. It’s rough and it’s raw and it’s everything that Frank needs right now. He lifts his free hand to twine into Gerard’s hair, pulling him impossibly closer as he moves into the kiss. Gerard is there, pushing up against him, crushing him against the wall. 

Frank runs his tongue along Gerard’s lips, and this time he opens up to him. He feels for Gerard’s tongue, hot and wet and laced with tobacco. He grinds his hips closer as their tongues slide together, exploring fervently, tracing teeth as the muscles wrestle against each other, fighting for control. Gerard slips a leg between his and Frank has to pull away from the kiss for a sharp breath.

“Fuck-” he tries to mutter, dazedly, but Gerard’s there again, swallowing the oath into his mouth. His hands are everywhere, tracing the line of his neck, grabbing at his shirt, dipping under it to feel the tender skin at his waist. He’s pressing up against Gerard’s leg now, unashamed and hungry for contact. There’s no explaining away the obvious evidence he knows they’re both feeling right now and all he can think is _fucking finally._

Gerard moves his hand down further, tracing Frank’s belt and Frank thinks he might lose the last few straws of sanity he has left. 

Without the necessary attention, however, his cigarette has burned down to the filter - he flinches away from the kiss with a sharp hiss and drops the offending butt as embers singe his fingers. 

“Mother _fucker_ ,” He curses, shaking his hand and frowning in pain.

He feels Gerard’s warmth slip away, and he looks back up from staring at his hand, alarmed at the chill that’s settled between them. 

Gerard’s running a finger over his lip looking thoroughly debauched, staring at him earnestly. “This doesn’t mean anything, okay?”

“Yeah, I mean- I know.” Frank’s stuttering out automatically, quick to assuage. 

Gerard’s striding back into the venue now, not sparing a glance behind him. Frank feels his knees buckle - he’s sliding down the wall until he’s sitting on the ground, legs folded underneath him.

 _But it does,_ Frank thinks to himself, _it means everything._

_*_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm relatively green to this site and learning new things everyday (yesterday I discovered there's a stats page which is pretty cool). Been trying to find clear-cut guidelines on the rating system, but coming up short. I've been leaning towards upping the rating on this fic to E just to be safe. Let me know your thoughts on this! Also, I feel like we've definitely hit the halfway mark here, but also, fuck if I know because this has really taken on a life of its own and I'm just along for the ride to be honest. xoZee


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frank is an expert schemer. "Trust me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, all! Apologies for the delay, hit a bit of writer's block, but here we are! I'm thinking that there will only be one chapter after this. Also, I decided to up the rating to E just to be safe. Thanks for sticking around and cheering me on, your comments and feedback mean the world to me :)

Frank Iero has done many things to get girls to notice him throughout the years. Granted, he doesn’t have to try very hard anymore - being in a big time rock band has its benefits, no one can argue that. 

When he was five he saved up all the coins he could find; dimes hiding in jacket pockets, pennies sitting in a neat pile by the washing machine, nickels sleeping forgotten under couch cushions. After painstakingly collecting two dollars, he waited for the tinkling tune of Mr. Softee to sound through the neighborhood. After what felt like forever he finally heard it, jovial and enticing - just barely audible at first over the chop-chop-swish of the sprinkler outside his window and the creaking of the metal fan in the corner of his room.

Frank ran out eagerly to meet the truck as it turned onto his block, buying his favorite Popsicle (Batman, of course) as the driver pulled to a stop at the curb. He barely even waited for his change to hit the counter before taking off down the block towards his crush’s house.

He found her drawing with comically large sticks of chalk, her brother and a boy he’d never met before sprawled out on the driveway alongside her. 

“Hi Sam,” he had said shyly, hiding the Popsicle carefully behind his back as he attempted to puff his chest out. He made sure to keep his knees locked together and back straight (posture is everything, his mother always impressed upon him). 

“Hi Frank,” Samantha responded, eyes fixated on the cat she was shading in purple.

“I bought you something, will you be my girlfriend?”

She finally looked up, glancing over at the unfamiliar boy first, before cautiously swinging her gaze back to Frank.

“Depends,” She replied slowly, thoughtfully, “Whatcha got, huh?”

Frank took a few steps closer, revealing the blue and white wrapped Popsicle in a prideful flourish.

Samantha sized him up for a few seconds before flippantly brushing her bangs away from her face. After what felt to Frank like forever, she reached out her hand and said, “Lemme see.”

Frank handed over the Popsicle and watched in anticipation as she unwrapped it. She took a timid lick and then frowned down at the smudged blue ears, nose wrinkling. Frank remembers thinking about how this made her freckles stand out even more under the summer sun and how it made his stomach flip-flop pleasantly.

“Batman is for boys,” She drawled disdainfully, then handed it over to her friend, “Joey, you take it.”

Samantha never really gave him the time of day after that (she sure gave it to Joey, though - all through sophomore year of high school), and Frank’s attempts at wooing women stayed much the same for most of his developing years. It never stopped him from trying, though. He was nothing if not tenacious. What he lacked in most things he made up tenfold for in confidence. That part his father had taught him; you could sell anything if you had enough confidence to back it up. It’s sort of strange now, Frank thinks, looking back on moments like this, how easy it comes to him these days. Being in a famous rock band opens up many such avenues.

What Frank has never done, however, is try to win over a friend. A best friend. A best friend who happened to be a man (also new). And a man who happened to be Gerard (doubly new). So Frank finds himself hopelessly lost in a sea he wasn’t sure he really knew how to navigate to begin with.

Frank thinks that maybe what he needs is some sort of map - something to chart the waters here. And he happens to have the perfect resource at his fingertips in the form of a lanky, glasses-clad bass player. After all, who knows the inner workings of Gerard better than his own brother? Frank just needs to approach him with tact and everything will be fine. He’s sure of it. There’s already a plan developing in his mind.

Tact, unfortunately, has never been part of Frank’s genetic tapestry, this being his first major oversight.

Right now, however, it’s somewhere near three a.m., and Frank is lying awake, staring at the ceiling of his bunk. The events of the past week are playing on repeat in his mind. When he closes his eyes he could swear he feels Gerard’s lips moving against his again, and oh god, he’s just fucking losing it, isn’t he? He can hear the faint snoring of his band mates under the hum of the bus’s engine. There’s a rustling from below him - Gerard must still be awake, Frank surmises, and listens closely for any further indications. A small, hitched breath breaks the silence, just barely there over the ringing in his ears. 

Without really thinking of his actions or the ramifications, Frank’s off his bunk. He pauses for a breath as his hand hovers over the curtain obscuring Gerard’s bunk from view. Now or never, Frank thinks. What does he really have to lose at this point?

With a hard swallow, he draws the curtain back and Gerard’s there, staring with wide eyes looking something like a deer caught in headlights. 

“Fr... Frank?” He chokes out. Frank doesn’t miss the blush coloring his cheeks, or the sheets bunching oddly at his midsection, hands hidden somewhere underneath. 

He slips in, drawing the curtain shut as he lies down. There’s nowhere to go but to press up against Gerard in the cramped space. It’s a little too warm and the air is on the stale side, but this is nothing new to Frank. He’d take a bus bunk over couch surfing at fan’s houses any day. Fighting with the covers, he tucks in as best he can manage. His hands are everywhere without really meaning to, the bunk is barely big enough for one grown man, let alone two. Gerard’s lying next to him, stock-still. Then, Frank’s wandering hands catch against an arm - he follows it down to a wrist, finding the hand attached has disappeared under a waistband. 

Frank raises his eyes to meet Gerard’s, slowly, he trails his fingers down, tracing the tendons in his wrist, toying with the elastic pressing against skin, dipping under it to caress the tender skin where his hips meet his stomach.

“It doesn’t mean anything, right?” Frank asks, eyes questioning and voice low as his fingers brush rough hair.

And, oh god, Gerard is nodding, staring back before closing his eyes - surrendering to this. A sly grin steals across Frank’s face as he wraps his hand around Gerard’s wrist, pulling it out of his way. He re-positions himself half on top of him and hovers his lips just above Gerard’s, not breaking eye contact, teasing. He can feel the heat coming off of the other man in waves as he lets his hand slowly wander. He’s touching everywhere, every inch of skin he can find except the one area he knows Gerard is aching for. He watches the want cloud over Gerard’s eyes as his fingers trace the lines of his hip bones, as his rough fingers lightly scratch down his thighs and then back up again, just barely grazing the hair between his legs.

Gerard groans in frustration, eyes lidded. He arches up as Frank pulls his hand out of the flannel pajamas so he can pull them down just far enough to reveal Gerard bare to the dark of the bunk. But then Frank pulls away, and Gerard lets out a strangled sound of protest at his absence.

“Shhh- just, come on, Gee, you have to at least try to shut the fuck up, okay?” 

Frank reaches a hand outside of the curtain to hit the switch on the clamp fan Gerard had recently splurged on in hopes of covering some of the sounds they’re making.

Gerard nods, pulling Frank back down on him, pressing hot lips against the tender skin behind Frank’s ear, and holy _fuck_ who knew that could feel so good?

And then his tongue is in his ear, breath hot and holy fucking shit, Frank’s vision goes white for a second.

“Please, Frankie,” He’s whispering, voice ragged and heavy with need.

And that’s all he needs to break any semblance of control he has left. He turns and kisses Gerard roughly, desperate for contact, grabbing a fistful of black hair to pull him closer. Gerard deepens it immediately, running their tongues together and burying his hand into the back of Frank’s shirt, clutching him like a lifeline. As Gerard’s ravaging his mouth, Frank can do nothing but push himself up against Gerard’s hip harder, aching for friction.

Gerard’s groaning again, and what the fuck did Frank just say to him about that? He presses his lips down more forcefully, swallowing down the sound as best he can.

“Fuck, Frank, please-” He’s saying against his lips, grabbing Frank’s hand out of his hair and urging it between his legs, “You have to- you’ve got to, ooh-” and Frank obeys, getting his hands around him, “-my fucking god, Frankie, yeah.”

“Just two friends helping each other out, right?” He’s whispering low into Gerard’s ear, getting a hoarse whimper in response. 

He’s pushing up against Gerard’s hip harder, speeding up his strokes as he does so. 

“Yeah, just like that,” Gerard’s saying, looking at him dazedly as he fumbles at the layers of fabric between one another. 

“Fucking touch me, Gee. I need you t- can you do that for me?” 

When his hand finally finds him, Frank can’t help but let out all the air in his lungs in relief, closing his eyes tight against the sensation, mouth hanging open. Gerard’s hands are dry and a little rough, but oh my fucking god, if this isn’t the best thing that’s ever happened to him, he doesn’t know what the fuck is. He’s sure he looks absolutely ridiculous right now, so lost in Gerard, but that doesn’t even come close to mattering when he’s touching him like this.

“Fuck, Frankie, you- ahh my god, you look like porn right now,” he stumbles out between breaths. “- Better than porn. You’re... You’re so- _fuck, Frankie-_ so fucking beautiful.”

And Frank can’t help but think that this isn’t something friends would say to each other. This isn’t something that just ‘doesn’t matter’. But they also have their hands down each other’s pants right now, and Frank’s fairly certain that this is way outside the realm of ‘just friends’ to begin with. But really, this isn’t the time to question it because he can feel Gerard stiffening beside him. The sounds he’s making are growing louder, and fuck, he should really shut him up because even though the thought of getting caught sends quiet thrills shooting all down his spine, it would be a rather frowned upon move in general. 

Frank pulls away slightly so he can see Gerard’s face - he’s looking back at him like Frank’s the only thing in the world that matters, and fuck if that isn’t helping him hold on to the ledge he’s teetering desperately on here. Frank almost tips over on that look alone. He has to duck his head and look away for a moment to regain some composure. He nuzzles into the crook of Gerard’s neck, working his tongue against the skin there and nibbling just lightly enough that it won’t mark. 

“Fuck, Frankie- I’m gonna-” 

“Yeah, come on, do it.” Frank says against his skin and quickly moves back up to cover Gerard’s mouth with his own in hopes of keeping the noises he knows are coming at bay. He’s trying to form what sounds like his name against Frank’s lips and then he finds that he really can’t hold on anymore either. He gives into it, riding it out, arching up sharply into Gerard’s touch, garbling his own half-nonsense words into Gerard’s mouth as he finishes just a few seconds after Gerard.

He rolls over, as much onto his back as the cramped space allows and catches his breath. He's awkwardly lying atop one arm, the other sprawled across Gerard’s chest, and he’s a little unsure which legs are actually his. Gerard breathes heavily next to him, one hand under Frank’s head, absently massaging his scalp.

“Fuck, Gerard that was…”

“Yeah, I know.”

After their panting subsides a bit, Gerard reaches into the corner and offers Frank an old t-shirt.

“For the-” He makes a waving gesture with his hand towards the mess they’ve both found themselves in.

“Thanks,” Frank replies, wiping himself off and handing the shirt back to Gerard to use. 

“I’ll just let you get to sleeping then,” Frank says and moves to return to his own bunk, but he’s stopped when Gerard snakes a hand around his wrist.

“Wait- do you think… Could you stay with me, Frankie?” he asks almost shyly. 

Frank feels something inside him shift and he has to clear his throat before responding. 

“Just as friends, right?”

There’s a pause and then, “Yeah,” but, Gerard doesn’t quite meet his eyes.

Frank smiles down at him and tucks back under the covers, fitting himself into the crook of his neck and throwing an arm around his waist.

“I think we can manage that,” he whispers. “Good night, Gee.”

“Night, Frank.”

*

Frank wakes up in Gerard’s bunk the next morning alone. He gets up, stretches, and wanders into the common area of the bus to find Gerard in his usual seat. He’s hugging his mug of coffee with a comic book laid open on the table in front of him. Frank sinks into the seat across from him and peaks over at the panels. He’s re-reading Akira again. Frank wonders how many times a guy can read the same comic in one month.

When Gerard moves to flip the page, he looks up briefly at his company. Frank seizes the opportunity to make grabby hands at Gerard’s coffee, and luckily, Gerard takes pity on him. He passes the mug over and Frank takes a long drag from it.

“Ugh, Gee, I don’t know why you have to absolutely murder your coffee with creamer. It’s a fucking crime.”

“If you don’t like it then make your own damn coffee,” he rebuts, grabbing the cup back with a frown. He cradles it to his chest as if consoling a crying child. “It’s okay, the bad man didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Frank snorts. He does a quick glance around the bus to ascertain that they’re alone before opening his mouth again

“So uh, about last night…”

Gerard’s quiet for a moment.

“I just don’t know what this means yet, okay Frank?” He runs a shaking hand through his already impossible looking hair, pursing his lips and looking everywhere but Frank’s eyes. He’s already had too much coffee, Frank can tell by the way his hand doesn’t settle when he brings it back to the table.

Frank understands. He gets it, but what he doesn’t get is that, although he never felt this before, he’s kind of reveling in it. He loves how his stomach bottoms out whenever Gerard walks over to his side of the stage - how important he feels whenever Gerard defers to him in interviews, like his opinion really fucking matters. He never felt so valued before this band, before _him._

At the same time, though, the only person he really wants to feel important for is the man in front of him, fingers jittering everywhere, one leg nervously jogging up and down, making the table shake under Frank’s elbows. He can tell that he’s aching for a smoke by the way he keeps stretching his fingers out then pulling them back into a fist. 

For Frank it’s easy now that he’s recognized these feelings - it’s the simplest thing in the world. But he also reasons that he’s had more time to reckon with this. He guesses that’s the thing about not having to be the front-man, not having to pay attention to everything but himself like Gerard does. When he’s on stage he doesn’t have to pander to the degree that their singer is expected to - laying his soul bare every second of every song. He can stand back and steal glances at Gerard as he dances across the stage, admiring how he works the audience (pretending sometimes, that it’s for him). He has time to drink in the way he runs his hands down his body, the sway of his hips, and when he’d moan - oh _god_ , when he’d _moan._

He has years of experience in examining Gerard’s face, memorizing every line, mapping every freckle. He knows what every little change means, can translate every look. Frank loves watching the way Gerard’s face shifts throughout interviews, he catalogs every expression that flicks by. He loses himself in the way that Gerard grasps for the proper words to express the whirlwind of thoughts he knows he’s besieged with at all times. He especially loves the way he’d smile whenever he felt he truly succeeded in getting his point across, how it starts at the corners of his lips then spreads slowly to his eyes.

But most importantly, Frank knows - because of this exactly - that Gerard needs time to sift through what he’s sure is a sandstorm raging through the landscape of his mind. Frank’s just hoping the grains of sand will weather away at his veneer. That takes time, though. Frank has never been terribly patient, but Gerard is worth the wait.

And now he’s been quiet for too long and the last thing he wants is for Gerard to feel that his mess of feelings are creating a shitstorm between them. Because goddammit, really… He gets it. 

So he smiles at Gerard, truly, and nods. He gets up and turns to go, but stops briefly, remembering Gerard’s twitching fingers. He reaches into his back pocket and opens the carton he finds there, pulling out a cigarette and handing it to Gerard.

“I know,” he says, and leaves him with his thoughts.

As he leaves he hears Gerard heave a sigh - and this is good. He knows Gerard’s sighs like he knows the chords on his guitar. This one was exactly what he’s been hoping for - a chip in that veneer. 

*

A few hours later, the crew is buzzing around, prepping for the concert. Frank leans against the side of the bus for a much needed smoke break, sitting on a forgotten amp. Mikey’s a few buses away chatting with Mark, another band’s bassist. Gerard’s milling about nervously, coffee cup still in hand, and Ray and Bob are back and forth carrying equipment.

Frank lets out a long exhale of smoke, ruminating on the best way to approach Mikey when Desiree, their new sound engineer, passes by and gives him a sideways smile. He’s fairly certain that she’s been hitting on him ever since he stopped to compliment one of her tattoos. Frank hadn’t really paid it much mind, though - he’s kind of had more pressing matters to deal with. Not that he isn’t flattered, and in a different time and place, he’d definitely be interested. She has that badass but down-to-earth thing going on that he usually goes for. But someone else has been dominating his thoughts recently - one that is pretty damn hard to compare to. 

This could be perfect, Frank thinks. He’ll just chat with Desiree, make sure Mikey sees, then go ask him for Gerard Advice under the guise that she’s the one who’s interested… And who says Ray has the best plans?

“Hey, Dez, wait up!” Frank calls, stepping on the butt of his cigarette as he pushes off the bus to catch up with the sound tech.

She turns, meeting his eyes and smiling wide, “Hey, you.”

Frank offers a warm smile back, mostly because they’ve stopped right in Mikey’s line of sight, and can his plan go more perfectly?

“Hey, so I ah, I was thinking of getting some new work done, wanted to know who your artist is and all. I still can’t get over the line work on your zombie.” Frank says, watching her eyes light up as she glances down towards the undead corpse rising from the grave etched across her forearm. He’s not even lying, it’s really fucking impressive.

On top of furthering his scheme, now he's also getting a new tattoo artist to add to his repertoire - two birds, one stone, he thinks smugly.

“One of my old college friends did it. He’s got a shop in Brooklyn. I can text you his number if you want. If you drop my name he’ll give you a nice discount, too... I mean, he’d probably give it to you anyway if you just give him some guitar pointers.” She’s looking at him from under her dark lashes and it really is too bad that Frank’s so fucking far gone for Gerard.

“Thanks, you’re the best Dez,” Frank grins in gratitude, glancing up quickly at Mikey again. He’s watching the two of them in mild interest as he continues chatting away with Mark.

“So…” Dez says, he turns back to see that she’s looking expectantly at him with her phone out, “Your number?”

“Oh yeah, hold on,” Frank takes the phone and punches in his contact info. As he hands the phone back to her, her fingers linger over his, tracing the letters on his knuckles. 

There’s a cough from behind them and Gerard emerges from the shadows of a nearby bus, flicking his own cigarette away as he pushes past Frank. His face is unreadable, but there’s something in his eyes that makes Frank feel like maybe he’s done something wrong. Before he can read more into it Gerard’s slipped on sunglasses. He almost calls after him until he notices that he’s wearing headphones and he probably won’t hear anyway.

Instead, Frank watches him disappear into the venue, brushing it off. He has to be imagining things, and anyway, what’s there for him to feel guilty about? It’s not like he was doing anything wrong, and even if Gerard thought he was, Gerard had been the one to set the boundaries here. 

When Frank looks back to Desiree, she’s blushing furiously. 

“I should um- get going, I’m already super behind. I’ll text you!”

“Thanks, Dez.” Frank waves over his shoulder, already jogging over to Mikey.

“So what, then? It’s not like a board game at all? You just roll dice and pretend shit up and follow what the dice tell you to do? I don’t know man, that sounds a little janky.” Frank can hear Mark saying as he approaches. Great, Mikey cornered him to talk about Dungeons and Dragon. This could take all fucking day.

“No, Mark, listen it’s not like that at all. There’s like, books on top of fucking books for this shit. It’s legit. It’s been around since the seventies. You can get little figures and make your own board up if you want, so it can be anything you want it to be-”

“Hey Mark, give us a second, yeah? Got some important My Chem stuff to discuss with Mikey here, you know how it is.” Frank interrupts, wheedling his way between them.

“Sure man, I’ll catch you guys after the show. We’re thinking poker tonight.” Mark says, giving Frank what he interprets as a grateful look when he turns to leave.

“Sounds cool, I’ll catch you later, man. I’ll bring my books,” Mikey shouts after him. 

“So,” Mikey turns back to Frank, deadpan, “Dez, huh?”

“Oh yeah, you know. She was just ah- looking for some advice, actually.”

Mikey raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah, apparently she’s crushing on Gee preeeetty hard, I told her I’d ask you for some pointers.”

“Pointers?”

“Yeah, you know. Like, how to ‘trap him’, girl shit like that,” Frank accompanies his words with air quotes, “So hit me, wouldn’t want to be a cock block, you know?”

“Are you fucking kidding me Frank? I’m not fucking brain dead, you know that, right?”

“The fuck do you mean?” Frank asks, warning signs blaring in his head.

Mikey’s covering his face in his hand now and drawing in a deep breath. He pulls it away and holds it out in exasperation. “First of all, Dez has been drooling over _you_ for the last two weeks. Second, I’m not telling you how to fucking get in my brother’s pants. I swear to fucking god, Frankie.”

“Whaaaaaaaaat?” Frank says, trying to sound as taken-aback as possible and hopelessly failing, making the word sound flat and cartoonishly drawn out. At the very least it’s buying him time to re-calibrate his approach. “I don’t know what you’re talking ab-” 

He stops short when Mikey throws him a sharp, pointed look.

“You can’t bullshit me, Frank. I may be the little brother here, but I wasn’t born yesterday. I’m older than you for fuck’s sake. I don’t understand how you all keep forgetting that.” Mikey says cuttingly, and he actually looks angry now.

Frank throws his hands up in defeat, “Fuck man, _alright,_ okay? You’ve gotta throw me a bone here, though. _Anything,_ come on!”

Mikey’s eyes are clenched shut in consternation, and he’s massaging the bridge of his nose. Frank’s unsure whether he’s going to walk away or deck him, so when he opens his eyes again, Frank almost just turns tail and bolts.

“Fine, but you owe me. **Big**.”

“Anything”

Mikey takes a deep breath and slowly exhales, looking up to the skies as if praying for rain. “So listen, Gerard doesn’t really crush. He’s always just sort of gravitated towards people that interested him and it’s just kind of slowly evolved from there. It takes him a while, alright?”

Frank frowns.

“But you don’t really need to worry, though, Frank. Maybe you can’t tell because you’re part of it. It’s always hard to tell when you’re the one stuck in the middle of this sort of shit, but he’s fucking crazy for you. He has been for a long time. He’s probably just scared shitless is all, you know?”

Frank’s quiet for a moment, rolling this information over his tongue.

“How long have you known?” He finally responds, quietly.

“Probably longer than you have,” Mikey responds, clapping Frank on the shoulder in a show of commiseration.

“You’re a scary man, Mikeyway.”

“Yeah, now fuck off, alright? I need to go vomit in a bush.”

Frank smiles despite himself and nods, “Yeah, alright, thanks man.”

“Oh- hold on, one more thing Frankie” 

“Hm?”

“Don’t you fucking hurt him. Don’t you fuck this up.”

Frank can't help but smile, “I won’t.” 

And he means it.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way! Keep an eye out for my next fic - I already have the first chapter written out and it was super fun and I'm very amped about it. It's going to be a ghosthunters!ParamourMansion AU called "These Terrors" for those that are interested in that sort of thing. I'm waiting to post until I have some more written out, though. Catch you on the flip side - xoZee.


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